What The Hell
by Jaenelle Angelline
Summary: The backstory to John and Iris's relationship, from Iris's point of view. My way of trying to fill in gaps the show's writers left. FINALLY COMPLETE. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note:**_ _For those who are expecting updates to 'Redemption', sorry, I'll get back on track with that story soon. My muse decided to take a hard right off the beaten path and struck out for parts unknown, taking me along for the ride. I watched the POI epsode with the John/Iris kiss and I thought it was great that they were going to do some more character development with him. Then I saw the reactions folks werre having online to the pairing and couldn't figure it out. Yeah, the writers for the show could have done a little more to introduce the pairing so watchers could be invested in the relationship, but the wonderful thing about it is that us fanfic writers can now take a shot at filling in the blanks the producers leave. So here's my version of how John and Iris got to that kiss in her office. _

**Chapter 1: Invisible**

She was, as usual, invisible.

For her, there were no 'good morning' wishes; no 'hey, how was your weekend?' on Monday mornings as she walked in. Not like there were for other officers; in fact, Harry Morgan and the front desk sergeant were having a spirited discussion about some TV show they'd both watched last night.

But there was none of that for Dr. Iris Campbell.

Not that she really minded. You had to expect a certain amount of isolation when you were a police department's psych consultant. No one wanted to be seen talking to the headshrinker, whether professionally or in private; no one wanted to appear as though they needed her services or were patients. Just one of the things that seemed to run in common through that thin blue line. And really, that isolation helped; the more you tended to disappear into the background, the more people seemed to forget you were even there—and when that happened they tended to act as they would if they weren't being watched. Harry Morgan, for instance, would pick his nose when he didn't think anyone was watching—and apparently he didn't think Dr. Iris Campbell was 'anyone' when he wasn't inside her office facing her on a professional level. So she didn't mind too much.

It still would have been nice to have someone at least say hello.

She accessed her schedule on her phone as she headed for the elevator that would take her to her office on the fourth floor of the precinct. As the departmental psych consultant for all of Manhattan South's precincts, there was a psych office in each of Manhattan South's precincts; today, however, her schedule brought her to her home office at Manhattan South Homicide's Oh-Eight. Two recurring patients were on her schedule for today; one, a uniform named Jeff Morris, would be her last consult; he'd been involved in a high-speed car chase (or as high-speed as one could get in Manhattan traffic) and had deliberately crashed his cruiser into the suspect's car to bring the chase to an end. As he'd been on administrative desk duty while his broken leg healed, he'd been ordered to see Iris simply as a matter of routine. She'd found him to be dedicated, and his purpose in crashing his cruiser hadn't been anything more complex than simply wanting to get the chase done and suspect in custody. Four consults had been mandated, today's would be the fourth and final one.

The other was also routine—Rookie Officer Tom Becker, fresh out of the Academy. He and his partner had been called out to a domestic disturbance his first day on the job, and had been confronted with a double homicide—a man and woman had argued, the man had pulled a gun and fired. Unfortunately the couple's four year old child had gotten between the mother and father and when the father fired, he'd killed his little girl. Then he'd promptly put the gun into his own mouth and splattered his own brains across the couple's kitchen wall. By the time Becker and Keiser had gotten to the scene, the mother had been hysterical and nearly ready to shoot herself. It had been a hell of an incident for a rookie, and Becker had reacted predictably. He'd thrown up at the scene, and his ramblings to her now mainly consisted of shame that he had done so in front of all the seasoned officers, interspersed with doubts that he could indeed do this job. All perfectly ordinary reactions, which she was helping him through. He'd been sent to her for six mandatory sessions with an optional six session continuance covered by the NYPD's insurance if he needed it or wanted to continue the psych consults.

But as she scrolled down her schedule she saw the two new patients. One she'd met already; yesterday, in the Homicide squadroom when she'd stopped in to tell him he'd been scheduled for mandatory sessions with her. Detective John Riley, involved in a police-shooting—mandatory six sessions with an optional continuance of another six; that had surprised her when she'd first gotten the orders from Internal Affairs. Someone must be worried about this Detective, or he must have special circumstances that made the Department want a full psych eval. He was her first consult of the day at ten AM—she was already a little late, but most cops were rarely ever on time for these things, so it wasn't a big deal. She'd skimmed John Riley's file already. Ex-military, four years deep cover in a Narcotics operation, recent transferee to Manhattan South Homicide after the murder of Detective Jocelyn Carter and the uncovering of the secret HR organization within the Department, reaching up into the mayor's office, of all places. Manhattan South Homicide had been the nucleus of the HR activity and when that organization went down, Homicide had gotten extremely short-handed. John Riley, fresh off a four-year deep-cover Narcotics sting operation conducted in conjunction with the DEA, ATF, and Homeland Security, had needed something to do and the Department had transferred him to Homicide. She couldn't find many details on the operation itself, or what he'd been doing during that time—not surprising, since it seemed like a Federally-run operation.

She got on the elevator, still scrolling down her schedule, and now she frowned. Detective Andy Bowers. She'd heard that name already, though she hadn't met him yet; whispers and rumors and gossip had abounded in the precinct about him. It looked like the Department had finally gotten wind of those rumors and decided they had to do something; having one of their decorated detectives splashed across the front pages of the newspapers and tabloids because he'd killed his wife in a domestic dispute wouldn't look good for the department at all. No, he hadn't killed his wife yet, but even Iris, as isolated as she was from the rest of the goings-on in the precinct, had heard he was escalating. While uniforms had indeed been called out to his house a few times in the last five years since he'd joined the Department, in the last three months alone they'd been called out four times; the last time had been only two days ago. He was escalating and she had to find out why before he killed his wife. The Department also must have realized this because they had put him on desk duty until she signed off on his psych eval.

Six year veteran of the NYPD, five of that with Homicide. Married to his current wife for four years, previous wife for six, first wife for only two. No children with any of them, which made Iris sigh with relief. It wasn't any of her business, really, but she hated seeing children in the middle of these domestic violence cases.

She finished off her coffee in the elevator, dropped the cup in the hallway wastebasket as she got off, then glanced at her watch. Ten-oh-five, John Riley's appointment was at ten. _No one's sitting in the chairs outside my office, so he must not be here yet._ She decided to take a quick detour to the ladies' room, checked to make sure those last few wisps of her red hair was tucked neatly back into the tight, oh-so-professional bun she always kept it in, then headed back to the office. And as she opened the door, she smelled something she shouldn't be smelling. _What the hell—coffee? A_nd then she walked fully into her office and saw a tall, slender man at the far end, looking at the few small items she kept on her desk—the photo she kept of her cat was in his hand at the moment.

And sitting on her desk was a steaming cup of fresh coffee.

_Ex-military. I will have to remember that when I'm dealing with him. _It was still very evident in the way he moved. She'd seen that when he turned as she came in, and she met a pair of incredibly blue eyes above a charming smile and what she could tell was a deceptively easy-going manner. Under the neat suit he wore, his body was hard, coiled, tense. He kept himself in shape, and his reflexes were sharp. Her heart skipped a beat at those blue eyes, which made her wonder at herself.

_Military intelligence. I will bet my pension he was in military intelligence. Must be why he was picked for a deepcover, federally-funded sting operation_. His voice was pleasant, a mid-range baritone, and he seemed to be completely open—but as he spoke more, and she was able to read more of his body language, she could see signs of deception. He was trying to charm her into signing off on his eval, as so many other cops would have, but he was going about it…in a completely different way.

It intrigued her even as she informed him coolly that she was well aware he was trying to manipulate her, and dressed him down firmly for trying those tactics on her. She had to resist the urge to smile at his charm, a part of her mind warning her that it was just another facet of his get-out-of-the-shrink's-office strategy even while another part of her insisted that some of this, at least, must be genuine.

She learned a great deal about him from what he didn't say in the next hour. And by the end of that session she wondered what he was doing in the Department at all. He wasn't a cop, she was sure of it. Not in the way she understood cops; not like her family was, not like almost every person who walked into her door. It started with the fact that, though he was well in his mid-forties, instead of giving in to middle age spread like almost all cops she knew, including her own father, he'd kept himself in shape and looked like he worked hard to keep himself there. He had the same deep-seated urge to help, serve, protect that ran deep in every cop; but there was a harder edge in him, one that she'd seen in cops who routinely went for their guns first and asked questions later. A quality she'd seen in the mavericks, the rogues, the ones who ended up getting drummed out of the Force for mental issues or on trial (and sometimes eventually in jail) for unjustified shootings. And yes, while she was sure that would eventually have happened to him if he was a real cop, she was now sure he wasn't. As he walked out the door at the end of their hour session, she had a deeper insight into his character but no less clarity on what he was actually doing in Manhattan South Homicide. _Seeing as how the upper echelons of the Department here at Manhattan South were so deeply implicated in the whole HR mess, I would not at all be surprised if he's been placed here by the Feds to keep an eye on the unit, see if anyone else might secretly still be working for HR or trying to resurrect the organization. No, I wouldn't be surprised at all._

But she had other patients to see, and half an hour later after she'd finished recording her initial session notes and findings from John Riley's session into her voice recorder for transcribing later, Andy Bowers walked in. And there was no mystery, no intrigue, as there had been with John. Andy Bowers was exactly the kind of person she had expected she would see—belligerent, narcissistic, egotistic, with a hard edge of anger in him. John Riley, too, had that hard edge of anger in him, she'd seen that much; but he controlled it, subsumed it, redirected it. Andy Bowers didn't have that; he made no attempt to tone down his anger at having thus been ordered into 'some little redhaired bitch's office to get my head examined', as he so bluntly put it. She had heard all of these things before, and more, so this didn't ruffle her outer calm, but inside she knew she disliked him, instantly, very much indeed.

"I don't need my head shrunk," he declared indignantly. "Nothin' wrong with my head."

"No one is saying there's anything wrong with your head, Andy, but there has to be something wrong with the way you control yourself since your wife has ended up in the hospital four times in the last three months," she said with some asperity. "I'm not part of the rank and file officers, but even I've heard the gossip about her injuries."

"So you're the reason I'm in here!"

"No, Andy, I'm not. As you well know, you were ordered by your superiors to come talk to me. I'd like to help you mend your relations with your wife, and I'm sure your wife would like to stop ending up in the hospital every two weeks, but that's certainly not going to happen if you don't start acknowledging you have a problem controlling your temper—and take steps to controlling it."

But he refused to listen to her, and the rest of that first session was wholly unproductive. He seemed to have latched onto her earlier words and translated them somewhere in his mind to an understanding that she had heard about his wife's frequent trips to the ER and had somehow managed to convince the higher-ups in the Department that Andy needed to see her. "Hey, for all I know, maybe you're the kind that likes this stuff," he drawled. "Maybe you want a piece of me?" his chest puffed expansively; he broke into a smile.

Iris just barely managed to repress a shudder. _I'll take John Riley over you. Any day of the week ending in y. Anybody would be better than you. I wonder what your wives saw in you, that they'd voluntarily choose to marry you._ She couldn't help a sigh as the door of her office closed behind Bowers. Although the session had been frustratingly unproductive, she was glad it was over. _What doesn't kill you makes you stronger_, she thought to herself. And as she sat down, her eyes fell on the cup of cooling coffee sitting forgotten on her desk. _Or…could drive you to drink_. She couldn't help the grin that crossed her face as she picked up the cup, regarded it thoughtfully for a moment before lifting off the lid. It was no longer hot, but still warm, and a faint curl of steam carried a whiff of caramel creamer to her nose.

_What the hell._ She raised it to her lips and took a swallow as she turned to her computer to record her notes. _Thanks, John._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Defense**

It was two weeks before she saw either of them again on her schedule. And curiously enough, it was again another Monday. She took a deep breath at the bottom of the precinct steps, squared her shoulders, and took out her cellphone so she could concentrate on looking at the screen to avoid noticing the fact that she was going to be invisible again.

She was scrolling down her phone screen looking at her schedule when a gentle baritone caught her attention with her name. "Good morning, Dr. Campbell."

Caught by surprise, she nearly dropped her phone as she looked up—into the cool blue eyes of John Riley. "Excuse me?" she said, almost disbelievingly. Around her—around both of them—conversation had stopped in the precinct lobby as other cops started at Detective Riley, who had just broken one of the Cardinal Rules Of Being A Cop: Never Talk To The Shrink.

"I said, good morning." There was a hint of humor in those blue eyes, a hint of softening around the corners of his lips.

"Um…um…good morning." She had no idea what to say. She wished her fair skin didn't flush so brilliantly; she had to be the color of a tomato right now. "Um…excuse me…I have to go prepare for the morning's sessions."

"I'll see you at ten, then, Dr. Campbell." And he stepped back, courteously giving her the right of way. As luck would have it, the elevator doors opened just then, and she used that as an excuse to fairly bolt from the scene, hurrying to the empty void of the elevator to avoid hearing the inevitable comments that would start over the minor drama that had just been enacted in the precinct lobby. The doors closed behind her, but not soon enough; she heard Fusco, Riley's partner, exclaim to him, "What the hell are you doing? You never talk to the shrink outside the office!"

She leaned back against the elevator wall, closing her eyes, trying to calm her pulse. _Dammit, Iris, what the hell is wrong with you? You're not some giddy schoolgirl who gets all fluttery over a man!_ Yet there was no denying to herself that she'd been thinking a lot lately about a certain pair of blue eyes, that his folder had been sitting on the edge of her desk where she could look at it and make notes as some new aspect of this intriguing mystery man named John Riley occurred to her. And just now, in the lobby…she closed her eyes, remembering the hint of humor in his eyes, the slight smile hovering around his lips. She got the feeling that he rarely smiled_. I'd like to see him smile. Just once. No sarcasm or bitterness, just pure humor. I'll bet he doesn't smile like that much_. And then, _I wonder what his laugh sounds like…_

She shook off those thoughts as she headed for her office. This time, Andy Bowers was first and John would follow immediately afterward. Good, she'd make sure she scheduled her appointments that way. Sessions with Andy were going to try her patience sorely, she knew, and she'd be better able to deal with him knowing that a pleasant session with John would follow afterward. Not that John was himself strikingly pleasant in sessions, but trying to figure out what was going on in his mind from what came out of his mouth was proving an interesting challenge.

And he was a lot easier on the eyes than Andy Bowers. She could admit that. In her opinion as a woman, not as a shrink, John Riley was a fine specimen of man. He just had some interesting emotional and mental hang-ups that, to her, just made him even more attractive. A man who could engage her eyes as well as her mind was a rarity; she hadn't run across many in her life and had never been lucky enough to have a serious relationship with someone who could do, and be, both. Not that she could ever, in any way, shape or form, get involved with John Riley…he was a cop, she was his shrink, for Christ's sake, it was wrong on so many levels…but she couldn't help remembering that glint in his eye as she plugged her laptop into the desktop dock. _I wonder if he knew cops don't talk to shrinks—and deliberately said that to me in the hallway? He's pretty perceptive—I wonder if he knew I feel invisible when no one talks to me in the morning?_

Then she shook herself. _Come on, Iris, why the hell would he even care? He just wants you to sign off on his psych eval like every other cop does, and get out of your office._

Andy Bowers was his usual obtuse, irritating, nauseously narcissistic self, and she knew she was never going to sign off on his psych eval. Unless he started taking this seriously, realized he had an anger management problem, acknowledged it and started learning how to control and manage that anger, nothing was ever going to change. He was never going to change. And unfortunately, nothing was going to change for his wife.

That was the one thing iris learned that troubled her. Andy Bowers' wife was sick; doctors had recently found a tumor growing in her abdomen, and a biopsy had shown it to be cancerous. She was going through treatments, taking medication, but it was leaving her sick and weak and tired and Andy had little patience for her not feeling good enough to have dinner waiting for him when he got home, or having to drive her to her doctors' appointments, and most importantly, that the cost of the medications she needed was cutting into the money he would normally have spent at the bar shooting pool with his pool league. And as a result, his temper toward his wife had worsened, and with it came the increased trips to the ER in the middle of the night. Iris had little faith that Andy was going to change, but she did have a whole lot of certainty that the assaults Andy's wife was enduring would become worse unless or until he eventually killed her. As she sat and listened to Andy rant about his wife's infirmity and how much everything was costing, Iris grew more and more certain of that.

"Well, I can say we're making some progress," she said with false brightness as she started to wrap up the session with Andy. "I think we've figured out what the root of your frustration is, so next session, let's focus on things you can do to control your temper."

"I don't see a need for another session. I told you why I'm mad at my wife. Now just sign off on my eval and I'll get outta your hair. I know you don't like me so let's just make this easier on both of us."

"Whether I like you or not, Mr. Bowers, is irrelevant. I cannot sign off on your psych evaluation because one, I'm not done yet, I don't feel like we've fully explored your reasons for your current mindset. And two, because you still have a lot of anger just under the surface and I'm afraid when you let that anger go you're going to hurt an innocent, someone who doesn't deserve to be on the receiving end of your temper. So no, I will not sign off on your evaluation."

"You uppity little bitch," Andy Bowers rose from his chair, took a couple of quick steps over to her as she stood by her desk. She tensed, but gave no other sign of alarm; she'd be ready for trouble if it came, though, and she made a fast mental note of everything that was currently on her desk that could be used as a weapon in case he attacked her. She would like to say he wouldn't, but at the same time, she couldn't be certain. He was too volatile, and that volatility made him unpredictable. "You think you're better than I am…"

She said nothing, just looked coolly at him. After a moment, he turned and stormed across her office, yanking the door open—and right on the other side, close enough to have heard everything that had just been said in the office, was John Riley.

And Andy knew John had heard him.

John stood in the doorway, his height blocking passage for the shorter, stockier Andy Bowers. A long, tense moment as the two men locked eyes; then John stepped a fraction of an inch to the side. Just enough to let Bowers pass, but not enough to make it a concession. A subtle body-language war between two dominant alpha males.

Iris didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until John closed the door of her office behind him. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" John gave her a slight smile as he crossed her office. For one heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to reach out and touch her hands—which, she noticed, were shaking slightly from tension; but instead he stepped around her, going to her desk, inspecting what was on it. As she turned, watched him, he started reaching for things; a letter opener, a snowglobe paperweight, a little three-sided rainbow prism, which he carefully set in precise spots on the edge of her desk.

"Sorry for Andy being a dick." She really didn't care what he might think of her language; her attention was now focused on him. "What are you doing?"

"You have some good weapons here, but they're only good weapons if you can reach them if you need them." He held up the letter opener. "This can be use weapon, that's self-explanatory. This," he held up the snowglobe, "Is heavy enough to give a man a slight concussion, but if you shatter it first and then strike for the face with the base and the pieces of jagged glass that are left, you could do some damage." He inspected the paperweight, which had a miniature resin Eiffel Tower in it. "You could also impale someone on the Tower." He put that down, held up the prism. "It doesn't look like it, but this can be just as effective a weapon." He held the triangular crystal out to her. "Here."

She took it a little numbly. A weapons lesson was not how she'd planned on starting this session. "It's just a prism," she said.

"It has three long hard edges and the ends are triangular, flat, and have small surface area. That small triangular flat surface area will be extremely effective if you shove it into an assailant's eye socket." He grabbed her right wrist in his left hand, positioned the prism in her hand so the triangular end surface pointed out, then before she could protest, he yanked her wrist toward his eye, stopping the movement when the prism was so close to his eye she swore his eyelashes were touching the glass. "Like that. It's not small enough to be driven through the socket into the brain for a fatal injury—it would get stuck in the back of the orbital ridge—but your assailant would be effectively crippled and unable to continue a planned assault."

"I…I'll take it under advisement." It was all she could think of to say. Then, "John…why?"

"If you're talking about the weapons lesson, everyone should know how to defend themselves from surprise attack. Even if you aren't in an inherently dangerous profession. Self-defense lessons are never wasted." He sat down in his usual chair, and then looked up at her—and she saw a hint of that humor in his eyes that she had seen downstairs. "If you're talking about this morning in the lobby, well…just because you're used to feeling isolated and invisible doesn't mean you like it—or should ever get used to feeling like that."

"Your partner—"

"I thought you would have heard that. Yes, Lionel told me cops never talk to shrinks outside the office. I don't understand why. If you see someone you recognize, it's polite to say hello." He fixed her with that penetrating blue gaze of his, and again she was struck by how gorgeous those eyes were. "No matter what anyone else might think."

"So do you do unconventional things out of politeness or because it's unconventional? Do you do that for attention, or because you think it's right?" She challenged him, and their session was finally under way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Instruction**

When she walked into the precinct a week later on a Monday, it was with her shoulders squared, her head held high—and her phone firmly in her pocket. She cursed herself for seven kinds of a fool , and she knew some of it had to be just wishful thinking, but if John Riley was going to wish her good morning she didn't want to blush and mumble like a schoolgirl. It was ridiculous, but she wanted to be poised and confident, wanted him to see her as competent and professional.

But despite all that, her hand did creep to her blazer pocket when she saw Andy Bowers' tight glare. She'd scheduled him first that Monday—not because John would come afterward, because this wasn't a week he was supposed to see her, but Iris simply wanted to get his unpleasantness over with before going on with the rest of her day. There'd been an envelope in her mailbox two days ago marked with the NYPD's interdepartmental mail seal, and in it had been a blank psych eval form with Andy Bowers' signature scrawled on the officer's line and a highlighted x next to the line meant for the psych evaluator to sign. It was a blunt, unsubtle request from him for her to sign off on his eval.

She hated herself for actually having thought about it. For the space of about two seconds. There was a very, very slight temptation there for her to just sign off on him and get him out of her office and out of her life—the next time he was assigned to a psych eval she would definitely shuffle him off to the department's other psych, Doug Trujillo—but in the back of her mind she remembered Andy's last comment about her being an 'uppity bitch', and his threatening advance. Her eyes had fallen to the side of her desk, where the letter opener, snowglobe paperweight and the little glass prism sat almost exactly where John Riley had positioned them the week before. She hadn't moved them, not much; just positioned them so that they would be within arms' reach for her if Andy decided to get threatening.

The way he was glaring at her now didn't bode well for her chances of a trouble-free session, and she even felt herself tensing as she passed him. She was spared having to say anything, however, by a now-familiar quiet baritone. "Good morning, Dr. Campbell."

She grinned as she turned to him. "I think we're past that point now."

"Iris, then," he smiled gently, and her heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name on his lips. _For Christ's sake, girl, you have fallen hard, haven't you. And it's all wrong, you idiot. Out of all the men you could have fallen for, it had to be the one you definitely can't have_… but he was standing beside her by the elevators waiting for the doors to open, and she had to say something. And that reminded her of another piece of departmental mail she'd gotten…"So I saw that while IA is doing their investigation and you're on desk duty, you've offered to do a course as an Academy instructor."

"Yes." Was that a slight hesitation in his voice?

"I believe the instruction you're proposing is hand-to-hand?"

Another slight hesitation. "Yes."

Well, if anyone was qualified to teach that to Academy recruits, it sure as hell would be John Riley. After his little demonstration in her office, she could endorse that wholeheartedly. "I take it you're bored with paperwork duty." She knew enough about him by now to know he wasn't good with paperwork and administrative minutia; he was very much the type to want to get into action, get his hands dirty. It was, after all, what had landed him in her office. "It would make good use of your time and talents. I can see how that would be effective instruction for Academy cadets."

"Thank you," One corner of John's lips quirked in a half-smile.

"I'm just not sure that your continued disregard for existing rules and policies of the NYPD would set a good example for said cadets." The elevator door opened and she stepped in, turned around. His face had fallen; he looked like a puppy who'd been smacked for being naughty. She had to fight the smile that threatened to split her lips when she saw that look. "I'll take it into consideration," she told him as she hit the elevator button. "I'll see you next week at your usual time."

She found herself nervously rearranging the letter opener, snowglobe and prism at the edge of her desk as the clock ticked off the minutes to Bowers' appointment, but to her mingled relief and disappointment, nine AM ticked past and he never showed. Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five she finally allowed herself to relax, blowing out her breath in a sigh, and entered 'absent' in her session notes. She was relieved he hadn't shown up because she would be spared his presence; but disappointed at the same time because she was still hoping maybe she could get her message through his thick head.

She turned to her computer, pulled up his file. There was his home address. Next of kin contact was his wife, Kim Bowers; and there was Kim's cellphone number and her work number. Iris paused for a long moment, chewing her lower lip indecisively; she was getting involved where she shouldn't, of course, but she was extremely worried, and although there were rules about doctor patient confidentiality, they didn't apply in cases where the doctor in question felt the patient was an immediate threat to themselves or others. And Iris knew her refusal to sign off on Andy's psych eval could very well result in backlash on Kim—said backlash resulting in another visit to the ER. She felt guilty about being the cause—but if she signed off on Andy's eval and sent him out on the street knowing he was a powder keg looking for a match, if he hurt or killed someone while on duty it would be directly her fault. And she couldn't live with that. Besides the blame and lawsuits that the victim's family would heap on the Department, besides the fact that the lawsuit would result in losing her job, she wouldn't be able to live with herself knowing she was the cause of someone's murder.

But there was another way, and that way was to talk to Kim Bowers, try to convince her that she needed to change her situation. And quickly. It was a toss-up whether the cancer would kill her first, or Andy; Iris's money was on Andy. In order to give the cancer a shot at her, Kim had to survive Andy.

Kim didn't answer her phone; Iris left a very polite message explaining that she was Andy's departmental psych eval, and she wanted to consult Kim privately on the matter. She stressed the 'private', hoping Kim would read that as a request for Kim not to tell Andy, then left her cell number, desk number, and the address to the Oh-Eight along with her office suite number and an invitation to Kim to 'feel free to come by my office if you want a private chat.'

That done, she tore up Andy's unsubtle request to her to sign his eval and dropped it into her wastebasket with a shudder; she was ashamed of herself for even thinking about signing off on that. Then she pulled the other sign-off form—John's instructor qualification request. Did she really feel he was qualified to teach recruits hand-to-hand unarmed combat? Yes. She'd see the way he moved, the sharpness of his reflexes—hell, he could probably give the Academy instructors a run for their money. They would either hate him when he got done, or they'd be begging him to take over their classes; she rather suspected a mix of those reactions. Good.

Academy instructors could get complacent sometimes about their jobs, and a reminder to them that they were not themselves invulnerable, that there were others out there who knew just as much as they did about unarmed combat, if not more, would rattle that complacency a bit. Complacency could get the cadets killed. _Some people need a hard lesson to learn and grow—and some people _are _the hard lesson_. She smiled at the thought of John Riley being a 'hard lesson', firmly redirected her mind down a different path when it threatened to wander down a dirty train of thought she definitely didn't want to follow while at work, signed her name to the bottom of the form and placed it in her outbox, then went on to Becker's evaluation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Broken**

And then he missed his next session.

She'd seen him just the day before, outside the Academy. She'd had a chance to peek in on his class as she was walking past the gym on her way to her own class, and spared a moment to watch him gently correct a new recruit's stance. John was standing behind the man to show him how to square his hips over his feet, braced wide to offer more stability, and Iris remembered getting lessons like that from her own father—and then trying those lessons on her brothers. However, if it had been John Riley giving those lessons she would have paid a lot more attention—even now, watching him, she wished she were the recruit instead of that guy. She would have liked to feel John's hands adjusting her arms, maybe on her hips as he squared her stance…she had to fight the blush as she hurried onto her class. Afterward, as they both left, he to go back to his desk, she to her office, he'd told her he would be there bright and early the next morning for his ten AM appointment.

So her initial reaction was surprise when he never showed up. Followed closely by annoyance.

She tried to tell herself for the first thirty minutes that he had simply forgotten, but something inside told her that John Riley wasn't a man who forgot things like that easily. Then annoyance set in. But by the time she gave up waiting for him and wrote 'absent' in her session notes, she had to admit to herself that some of her initial annoyance had been because she had genuinely been looking forward to seeing him, talking to him.

Over the last couple of sessions, since the impromptu self-defense lesson he'd given her in her office, talking to him had begun to feel less like patient/therapist and rather more like talking to a new friend. Oh, he was still good at keeping secrets, hiding some aspects of himself; but the more time she spent with him, the better able she was to see when he was being truthful with her—or when he was hiding something. Yet, even when he wasn't being entirely honest with her, she still didn't sense malice or harmful intent; rather that there were things he felt he had to keep secret. When she pushed, he might let slip a few things—but she'd gradually come to realize that those things he kept secret had little to do with his character, or his mindset, and she'd learned where those boundaries were—and to respect them. The whole point to a Departmental psych eval was to be sure the cop holding the gun wasn't a danger to themselves or others; to be sure that the officer wouldn't go postal and shoot innocents at random. After only four sessions with him, Iris knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that John Riley would never kill an innocent. Although he saw the world in shades of gray rather than a simple black and white, she was positive he would never cross that line.

After last session she'd known she would sign off on his eval. It was, in fact, already printed up and only needed her dated signature to make it official. Yet, even though she already knew that, she hadn't done it yet, had scheduled him for the remaining two mandatory sessions and had reminded him, via an emailed departmental memo, that he had an optional six sessions that he could take and still be covered under the NYPD's health insurance if he thought he needed it—or wanted it. She still felt there was a lot she could help him with—not necessarily the day-to day stuff he was keeping from her, but emotional complexities that she knew he didn't have any coping strategies to use to deal. What she'd been able to see of him and his life so far, mostly gathered from what he didn't say as opposed to what he did say, had shown her that he'd had a lot of upheaval, a very active, unsettled past with very few fixed points to ground and settle him. Not even a home, she'd realized after about their third session; she knew he'd been in the military, and that was in itself a fairly unsettled life. Then came his time in the CIA, and she had not been able to glean anything from him about what he'd done in that time thus far. All she knew was that it had been cloaked in secrecy and had lasted about four or five years.

But as much as she was curious about his past, what she was really interested in was his emotions, his state of mind, what he thought and felt. And part of the reason she kept him coming back for these last few sessions was because she'd discovered that it wasn't that he didn't _want_ to talk about his feelings; it was that he simply didn't know _how_. He didn't know how to express something he felt instinctively; and as his innate character was that of a man who tended toward introspection, his life of secrecy and deceit had only exacerbated that. His lack of any long-term emotional ties to any person, his lack of long-term physical ties to a stable environment, had forced him to internalize and bottle up too many things that he didn't know how to deal with, and yet those things sought an outlet because he was human and he needed to let those out. Seeing him so lost, adrift in his own emotions and unable to figure out how to deal with what he felt and what he thought, hurt her; the façade he put up of 'having it all together' was just that, a façade, and under it his emotions and mental state was a chalice spiderwebbed with cracks, held together with his own will. It was an internal stalemate, of sorts, but it was a stalemate that couldn't continue. Eventually if something wasn't done, that chalice would shatter. And with it would go the keen mind and heart and soul of the complex, beautiful man named John.

And, deep down inside her where she was reluctant to admit it to herself, she cared about him. Deeply. Flawed and broken as he was, as complex as his mind was, he was, at heart, simply a 'good' man. There were few people in her life she could append that adjective to. And there was an example named Andy Bowers right in front of her that displayed what a man looked like when he had no control, no will, thought he was perfect and there was something wrong with everyone else around him. If John hadn't learned that iron will, hadn't learned to channel all of his emotions internally, redirect and re-channel it into other avenues, he would be Andy Bowers. She was sure of it.

Because she'd known someone else like him. Kevin Holloway.

She hadn't allowed herself to speak Kevin's name in seven years. Hadn't allowed herself to think about him for the last four. She'd buried all of those feelings deep inside herself and refused to think about it anymore. But as much as she tried to bury it, Kevin Holloway was as much a part of her as John's CIA past was a part of him.

Kevin had been much like John, an introvert, reserved, quiet, private. Handsome. Kevin and Iris had gone to high school together; Kevin was the son of her father's former partner, and their two families' lives had been so enmeshed, so entwined, that she had grown up knowing him. She'd lost her virginity to him. There'd been no one but him for her through her teen years, and they'd both known that they would go through Police Academy and into the Force with each other. They'd gotten engaged as soon as she finished Academy, but the rigors of being a rookie new to the job had put their engagement on hold.

And then she'd watched him start to change. She couldn't remember exactly when she'd realized he was no longer the childhood friend she'd known, the man she'd loved and who she was committed to marrying; but one day she woke up and realized he was no longer the person she knew. Instead of going to movies with her on their off days, or Coney Island, or the other things they used to love doing together, now he was drinking hard and shooting pool with his buddies from the Academy and on the Force, and she'd felt left out. Yes, she had a few girl friends, but she wasn't an extrovert, wasn't the type to make friends easily; she had to know them well before she would consider them friends, and as a result, there was no one she really felt free to 'hang out' with.

And then one night he'd invited her out to come with him and one of his friends. She'd accepted, not suspecting anything; the three of them had gone out to a club, which she'd never done before. Unused to the entire experience, completely unsuspecting that Kevin might have had any ulterior motive, she drank what he gave her, and when her senses were so blurred and dulled by the alcohol that she no longer knew what she was doing, Kevin's friend had driven the three of them to a house where a group of other NYPD officers and rookies had been waiting, and Iris had been hazed into the Force.

She still had few recollections of that night. The only clear memory she had was of Kevin, her beloved fiancé, holding up a cellphone and telling her to look like she enjoyed it as someone whose name and face she didn't know used her body. That was the only clear memory she had of a night that was otherwise lost to darkness; there was only the memory of someone inside her she didn't want to be there, the memory of the shame and humiliation she'd felt as she was passed around between Kevin's friends.

The other memories of that night was a mass of shattered glass and overwhelming pain. It wasn't until she'd woken up in the hospital two days later with both her legs in casts and her father crying beside her bed that she learned what had happened. Kevin and two of his friends had driven her home; but with all of them inebriated, there had been no judgement on any of their parts. A missed red light, a truck that none of them had been sober enough to see coming; the truck had impacted the driver's side door, rolling the car they'd all been in. The two men in the front of the car, Kevin and one of his friends, had been dead on impact. Another man had been in the driver's side rear passenger seat beside Iris; he had died at the hospital. Iris had been the only survivor; she'd broken both legs, but the shattered frame of the car and her fiancé's body had shielded her from the wreck.

She'd never told anyone what happened that night, before the accident. She'd silently accepted her father's scolding for going out, getting drunk, getting into a car with a drunken driver behind the wheel; silently attended the funerals for those two of Kevin's friends who had been in the car that night. Had never told anyone, even her beloved father, that the fiancé she'd loved and trusted had betrayed her.

But in the days following the accident, as she lay in bed and dealt with the agony of two broken legs, the one question that kept repeating in her mind was 'why?' Why had Kevin done what he did, why had he changed, why hadn't she, or anyone else around them, seen what was happening? And more importantly, how could she make sure it didn't happen again? Driven by those questions, she'd started researching psychology books, trying to understand the human mind. Spent her days reading as her legs healed, spent long nights studying and researching even as she went through round after round of physical therapy to help her re-learn how to walk, post-accident. The obsessive need to answer those questions led her to quit the Force and enroll in college as a psych major, and eventually graduate and get a license to practice psychiatry. And it had then led full-circle as she came back to the police force she'd abandoned; but not as an officer this time. This time she was someone who could help make sure what had happened to her, and Kevin, would never happen to anyone else again.

John reminded her a great deal of Kevin—but as the Kevin she'd known, fallen in love with, and engaged to marry. Not the Kevin who'd told her to 'enjoy it' as he watched her suffer under another man's body. No. John, she sensed, would never be that Kevin. But she could see the ways he could change, could become hard and uncaring, and lose his humanity in the life he led, the things he did or were compelled to do, and she wanted to keep him from that. Wanted to help him, more than anything she'd ever wanted in her life.

And on a much, much deeper level that went beyond questions, beyond professionalism, beyond anything she'd known before, she wanted him. As a man. He was gorgeous, no one could deny that. Those blue eyes of his haunted her dreams and imaginings; she'd privately made a copy of his photo, cursing herself for being a fool and an idiot the whole time, but that photo was now tucked in the back of her wallet where she could carry him around with her. She couldn't have him, of course, it was absolutely forbidden. She could lose her job, her career, because of this, because of him, and what man was worth that? But when she looked at his picture, remembered the gentle humor in his eyes as he'd said good morning to her in the precinct lobby the morning of his second session with her, a tiny voice away in the back of her mind told her _he's definitely worth it_….


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Talk**

And that tiny voice in her head was even more insistent when she saw him that afternoon.

He was in a hurry, and she had to walk fast when she saw him breeze through the lobby. "Wait." He didn't stop.

"Not so fast, Detective. You missed your appointment this morning. You're being evasive."

He didn't sound sincere when he replied—in fact, he didn't sound like he'd heard her consciously at all. "Sorry about that."

It threw her for a loop, but she didn't feel like he was ignoring her, or tuning her out; he simply seemed like he was preoccupied and didn't have time to listen to her. She'd never seen him like this before; the dark predator with the unshakable moral center was at the forefront of his consciousness, and she could see it in every line of his body, the intensity in his piercing blue eyes. And she needed to see more of this side of him; there were so many answers to a lot of her questions in…whatever he was doing now. "How about we continue building on our progress?"

"Great idea. Unfortunately now isn't a good time." Again, distant and focused on something else.

She wanted to get his attention, so she sped up and planted herself in front of him. "Would you rather I pull my endorsement of your instructor position? How about a walk and talk?"

He looked right past her. "What? Uh, sure." And then he started walking.

She sped up until she was in step beside him, trying to match his strides with her own. "Let's start with your hero complex, which men often develop in response to being bullied as a child."

Preoccupied with whatever he was focused on at the moment, he responded quickly—so quickly she knew it had to be a truth. "Iris, my school didn't have bullies. I kept them in line."

She digested that. "Um, bullying bullies is the very definition of a hero complex." There was no response to her rejoinder; he was still focused on something or someone in front of them; but as they were on a public street, there were any number of people in front of them that he could be looking at, and she couldn't pin down the focus of his line of sight. "You seem distracted. There something else on your mind?" She said it with a bit of acid in her tone, a tone that she used in session when she wanted to get his attention.

"You could say that." No wavering in his focus.

She just about had it. Her heels were killing her feet with the fast pace he was setting, too. Why had she chosen today, of all days, to wear the damn heels? "Look I'm not sure what you're running from, but—"

He snapped back, in the first display of temper she'd seen from him since she'd first met him, "I'm not running from anything. I'm trying to save someone." She looked in front of them automatically. The crowd had thinned ahead as they got to an intersection, and she saw a petite brunette; plainly the one John had following. And then, up ahead, she saw a black SUV with far too many people in it turn the corner.

Time seemed to slow. John pursed his lips and gave a piercing whistle; up ahead, the brunette turned, and iris recognized with a shock that she'd seen the woman before. At the Academy. A cadet, wasn't she? Silva? Yes, that was her name. But even as Silva turned, the windows of the SUV rolled down, and Iris saw the unmistakable shape of the barrel of a large automatic rifle poke out of the window. Iris didn't think John even thought consciously about what he was doing as he grabbed her arm and used his own body as a pivot point to spin her around and shove her down behind the protecting bulk of a nearby car. "Get down!"

The guys in the SUV opened fire first; Iris saw the cadet, Silva, whip out her own weapon and duck behind another nearby car as she opened fire on the SUV's occupants. Barely a millisecond later, John opened fire with his own weapon, and iris spared just a moment to watch his alert, predator's focus on the SUV as he opened fire, before the SUV's occupants singled him out as the source of the second round of shots and opened fire on him too. Gunfire from the SUV's shooters hit the car behind which Iris and John were taking cover behind, and she screamed in shock and startlement even as something she'd learned long ago in the Academy kicked in. _Cover your face, mouth and nose. If they're firing tear gas or some kind of chemical, you don't want to breathe it in._

It was over barely a second later, but it felt like an eternity to her before John said quietly, "It's all right. Come on." He gently pulled her up from where she'd crouched, covering her mouth and nose as she'd learned all those years ago, and gently brushed a lock of her hair out of her face. A part of Iris's mind cursed her for not wearing her hair back; she'd let it down today, but at the same time she couldn't help but feel a tingle of pleasure at the feel of John's hand in her hair. And with the obvious and most immediate threat gone, she saw concern in his blue eyes as he brushed a few clinging bits of glass out of her hair.

"What just happened?" She was pleased that her voice didn't shake, although she had to curl her hands into fists to keep them from shaking—or John from noticing they were shaking.

There was a hint of humor in his blue eyes. "You were saying about my hero complex?"

She'd think about that later. "What the hell was that all about? Why were they shooting at us?"

He turned, looked down the street toward the vanishing Silva. "I'll explain it all later." He took a step toward Silva, then looked back at her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

The last thing she wanted was for John Riley to think she was a helpless, hysterical female. "Yes. Go."

He paused at the corner, gave her a brief, wry smile so fast that if she'd blinked she would have missed it, then vanished, leaving her behind to explain the drive-by to the uniforms who had responded to calls from passers-by about the sounds of gunfire. _You owe me, Riley_, she swore to herself as she tried to rein in her exasperation at the young uniforms who seemed to think she was a pampered hothouse flower about to pass out on the sidewalk.

* * *

She was thinking about it that evening when her phone rang. A glance at her caller ID, and she grinned as she answered it. "Hi, Dad."

"Hey, Kitten." An old pet name that she hated. Probably the reason her father still called her that, although if anyone else tried it she'd leave bruises that would last a week. "Heard about the excitement at the Oh-Eight this morning."

"How did you know I was involved?" She couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Saw you in the background behind some blabber-mouthed reporter. You were talking to a uni. Couldn't miss my girl's red hair."

She chuckled as she took a sip of wine out of her glass. She drank sparingly and infrequently, and never in public, but after the events of the morning, she'd felt wired and on edge the rest of the day and knew she'd be unable to sleep that night if she didn't find some way to relax. "Yeah, there was a little excitement outside the precinct this morning."

"A little? Sounded like a lot. Drive-bys on a police precinct don't happen every day, Kitten. I never, ever went through one."

"Yeah, well now I can say I've done something you haven't." She relaxed against the couch cushions as Zeya, her Burmese cat, got up from the other end of the couch where she'd been sleeping, stretched leisurely, and came over to butt her head against Iris's arm, asking to be petted. She reached over and petted the cat's satiny fur absently as she continued talking to her father on the phone.

"Iris, I'm serious. I never wanted my girl to go through something like that. I know I said I was proud of you when you went into the Academy, but now I wish you'd chosen to do something safer."

"I was safe, Dad." Yeah. With John. John wouldn't have let anything happen to her; he'd pushed her behind the car as cover, and then the gentle way he'd straightened her up and brushed glass out of her hair—she'd felt safe. Protected. And although she hadn't had time to notice much, she had seen the genuine concern in his eyes. Not part of his strategy to get her to sign off on his eval, then—they'd gone past that already.

No, John would never be what Kevin had become. Never do what Kevin had done to her. He was a killer, yes. He had skills she couldn't even begin to name developed from a long career in the military, as a CIA agent. But he would never, ever hurt anyone he considered innocent. Like her.

And then her phone beeped, and she took it out of her ear to check the caller ID. And stared in astonishment. "Dad, let me call you back, okay? I have a patient who needs a quick consult."

"Okay. Don't forget." He hung up moments later.

She switched over to the other call. The number on her phone had been familiar, yet not. Familiar, because she'd seen it on the paperwork she'd been staring at rather obsessively over the last month or so; not familiar, because she had never dialed it. "Hello, this is Iris. Can I help you?" She didn't say 'John' because she couldn't believe that _he_ would be calling her.

"It's John. John Riley." Unnecessary, because no one else she knew had that silky baritone voice. "Good evening, Iris."

It took her a moment to pick her jaw up off the floor. Her hands even stopped petting Zeya as she tried to process the fact that John Riley, of all people, was calling her. On her cell. Not during work hours. Zeya stared at her curiously for long seconds, then butted her hand. When Iris made no move to begin petting the cat again, Zeya twitched her tail in discontent and stalked off, plainly miffed at having lost the competition for Iris's attention to the little electronic box.

Iris barely noticed the cat's departure. "Um…hi, John," she managed to get out through her surprise. And then, getting herself together—_you're not a giddy schoolgirl, Iris Campbell!_ "What can I do for you? Somewhat unusual to be calling me now, isn't it?"

"I apologize for the timing. It's been a long day and I just got off work." Iris stared in disbelief at her clock. Eight PM? He was just finishing up at 8PM? "I…I'm sorry, I realize it's a bit late…"

She'd never heard John Riley hesitant before. "No, no, it's all right, I'm still wired from this morning, it'll be a while before I go to bed," she blurted, then flushed. He didn't need to know that. "How are you doing?"

"It's routine for me. I get involved in shootouts all the time, remember?" a hint of a smile in that voice. "But it can't be routine for you."

"You wanted to know how I was doing?"

"It's not every day that a desk jockey gets shot at," he said quickly. Slightly defensively. _He really was worried about me_, she thought with surprise. The thought brought a sudden warmth to her cheeks.

But she didn't let that show in her voice. "Why is it that every cop and every person I've seen or talked to today seems to think I'm a hothouse flower ready to faint at the sound of a gunshot?" she asked irritably. "For Christ's sake, even Harry Morgan realized I was there and stopped himself from picking his nose!"

Silence for a moment. She was about to apologize for seeming to be rude when a soft chuckle came down through the line to her, and if she closed her eyes, she could see John Riley on the other end of the phone. Suit coat off, sleeves maybe rolled up to his elbows. Or in a t-shirt and some casual sweats. She could imagine him holding the phone to one ear, maybe cradling a beer with the other. Relaxed. Smiling. _I wish I could see him like that. Just once._ "Sorry, Iris. I didn't mean to be like everyone else and assume…" he paused, as if realizing he might have been about to say something she might take offense at.

"…assume that I really am a pampered spoiled brat?" She finished for him. "I'm perfectly fine, just rattled." Then, in the next breath, "You said you'd explain everything later. So explain, buddy."

"That sounds less like a request from a therapist and more like a command from a friend," he said.

"If you don't explain why you left it up to me to explain to a handful of uniforms and some police officials what happened , John Riley, I'm revoking my permission to you to call me a friend," she said acerbically.

"So we're friends now?" The tentativeness in his voice touched her, but didn't surprise her. John Riley wasn't a man to call someone a 'friend' lightly or casually. He took that very seriously indeed. Lacking close family, or any permanent emotional ties, friends were his anchor to the rest of the world.

"Yes, John, we are." She gentled her tone, knowing that he would know she understood this wasn't something he did casually. It wasn't something she did casually either, but he wouldn't know that—or would he? "So start talking."

"This is confidential, Iris," he warned.

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. For Christ's sake, was the man really that dense? "John Riley. I am a therapist. I can keep secrets. If you'd like, you can call this a counseling session, so everything will be private. Now just tell me what happened, damn it, before I lose my patience and hang up on you!" It wasn't something she would have dared to say in a patient/therapist relationship, but as John had decided to call her a friend, and she had decided likewise, well, friends were entitled to take certain liberties. She damn well was going to take that and get an explanation out of him for the circumstances that morning, because she was going to die of curiosity if he didn't.

"Dani Silva is a recruit at the Academy. There'd been some talk about someone else in the academy not liking her that much and I was worried someone might make an attempt on her life."

Iris blinked. Although she got the feeling there was much more than what he was saying, the tone of his voice and the immediacy with which he'd said it told her this was the truth, or at least the bare-bones facts. "Is that why you volunteered to be a guest instructor? So you could keep an eye on her?"

"In part, yes." Iris believed that too.

"John, why all the cloak-and-dagger? Is secrecy really that much of a habit with you? You could have told me!" On the other end, he took a breath to say something, but she cut him off. "Never mind." Then, quieter, "I'm sorry. I realize there are things you say you can't share with me, but perhaps as we become friends you'll realize you don't need to hide quite so much. I'm a big girl."

A pause on the other end, then John said, "Secrecy is a large part of my life, Iris, and there are some things that I wish I could tell you. I don't want you to get in trouble because of them. And I don't want you to get hurt."

There was a whole story behind that, but Iris didn't press; she'd ask him in one of their future sessions. "I am capable of taking care of myself, John, but you don't know that. Maybe someday when you realize that you'll let me in." She sighed. "In the meantime, I do have to work tomorrow, and so do you. We'll talk some more at your next session, all right?"

"All right. I'll look forward to it. Good night, Iris."

"I'll be looking forward to it too. Good night, John."

Alone in the silence of her apartment again, Iris stared into her wine glass without seeing the thing, thinking. _I wish I could tell John I'd like to be a bit more than his friend._ Blue eyes, piercing in their intensity, swam in her vision. _Damn all of the ethics rules. He needs someone who can see the real him through the front he puts up. Someone who can ground him and connect him to the rest of humanity, because right now he's so lost._ Her heart ached. _Oh John. I wish I could be that person for you._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Loss**

Since he was usually good at keeping promises, she was taken by surprise when, two Mondays afterward, John sent a brief email canceling their session with no further explanation—not even another phone call.

She didn't see him until the week afterward.

And when he came in, despite his usual firm stride, she saw exhaustion, weariness, anguish, etched in the lines on his face. It touched her; so much so that her voice was much gentler then it would ordinarily have been when she said, "When I said I was looking forward to our next session, John, I didn't expect you to make me wait so long."

But she also said it lightly, to take the sting out of those words, and it had its intended effect. John smiled wryly as he sat down. "Is that your way of saying you missed me, Iris?"

_Of course I missed you, you idiot! _But all she said was, "It's my way of saying you're not supposed to cancel mandatory sessions."

He shrugged, and when he spoke, his words were light but she could again hear the bitterness in his voice. "They didn't give me mandatory sessions because I'm good at following rules."

The bitterness was so unlike him that Iris knew he had to be hurting from something. It took all of her will not to give in to her impulse and reach out to hug him where he sat. "Captain Moreno said you took unpaid leave." AWOL was what the captain had actually said, but Iris didn't have the heart to get confrontational with him. Not seeing him sitting there with his shoulders slumped, as if the weight he carried on his shoulders had just gotten heavier. _Oh John. I wish you could understand you don't have to carry it all by yourself._

And then her questions were answered with his next words. "There was a death in the family."

She already knew he didn't have close ties to his biological family—in fact, she'd never heard him mention any brothers or sisters, or extended family. But she did know that he had another group of friends, completely unconnected with the police department, that he spent his time with; she vaguely recalled John mentioning a 'Harold' and 'Sam'. They were close to him, she knew that—as close to him as family would be to anyone else. For him, those friends were the closest thing he'd ever have to family—and if something happened to one of them, it would be a blow to him indeed.

And he was never good at talking about his feelings. Which she knew—but she still tried anyway. "I'm sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?" Silence. He couldn't even look at her. She didn't push, either; she knew that if he did, she would see the hurt and pain and anguish in his eyes, and she would indeed not be able to keep from giving him a hug. "Okay. Then onto the good news. This is your last session. I'm signing off on you. Congratulations. You're sane, or close enough. And you're free to go."

He didn't look elated, or relieved, or overjoyed, as she suspected Andy Bowers would have. She got a simple, "Okay. Thanks for everything." That was it. Her heart ached as she stood, and she again had to use all her will not to give into the impulse to hug him. She restrained herself to a simple professional hug, though she tried to project as much warmth and sympathy into it as she could. "I'm sorry." He nodded, and left.

And it felt like a part of her heart walked out with him—something she hadn't felt since before she and Kevin had joined the Force.

* * *

So she was surprised as all hell when he appeared at her office door about a week and a half later. The Department was pressuring her to make a decision, one way or another, about Andy Bowers; and they were hinting pretty strongly at which way they were hoping she would go. They couldn't come straight out and tell her that they wanted her to sign off on Bowers' eval, of course, but they certainly made their feelings known.

_Dear Dr. Campbell: It has been two months now since Detective Andy Bowers was referred to you for a psych evaluation stemming from repeated incidents at his residence which have disturbed the Department. We have read your analysis of each session, and though we will bow to your expertise, we see nothing in his evaluation to preclude his return to full active duty._

"Yeah, because he hasn't shown up for his last three appointed sessions." She'd seen far more of John than she had of Andy. She'd written in her report, after Bowers' last absent session, that he had missed sessions, that he refused to acknowledge that he had an anger management problem, and that due to the stress of his wife's illness he would benefit from additional counseling.

Apparently they didn't agree. They wanted him back out on the street. And she could not sign off on that.

She was trying to figure out how to re-word her last report to be a bit more forceful with her recommendation that he seek long-term psychiatric care when she sensed, more than saw, someone standing in the doorway of her office. She looked up—into a pair of intense blue eyes she hadn't expected to see again in her office, although he seemed to have made it a point of habit to be present in the Oh-Eight's lobby on Monday mornings and escort her to the elevator. It was almost a ritual with them now, and if other officers glared at John for Talking To The Shrink In Public, he plainly didn't notice. Or if he did notice, it was equally plain that he didn't care. "John!" And then a joke; "Please tell me you didn't just shoot someone else." But she couldn't stop the bright smile that spread across her face.

He smiled at her, too; and it was a genuine smile. "Not yet," he joked back. "But I was… I thought maybe we could keep talking."

The sudden vulnerability in his voice combined with hope made a lump rise to her throat. She'd missed him. Hadn't occurred to her just how much she'd missed talking to him until just now. And she felt her cheeks heating up. "Of course. About what?" He still had six more optional sessions with her that were covered by the NYPD's insurance, and even if they weren't, well, there were ways around that. Hell, for him, she would offer her services free. _Iris, you've fallen pretty hard, haven't you?_

He looked hopeful but uncertain, as if he hadn't been sure she would say yes. "About things that have happened. Regular sessions."

Yep, he was opting for the extra sessions. He must have understood, somewhere down inside, that she was trying to help him. Or had he missed her as much as she'd missed him? Did she even dare ask him that? She knew she couldn't. "I'd be happy to. But you should know this will be more than a quick chat to make sure you're not about to snap. I'll be asking you some pretty tough questions." If he was going to opt to let her help him, of his own accord, then he'd better be prepared for what that was going to cost him. She was going to get some real answers this time.

He looked suddenly wary "Like what?"

_Ah-ha. Got you now, didn't I?_ "Like who are you, really? Because you're not a cop. My dad, three brothers, an uncle, and two of my aunts, all police. I've been around cops my whole life, and you, my friend, are not a cop. So how did John Riley wind up working for the NYPD?" He looked suddenly unsure; he really hadn't known what to expect, had he? "Does nine AM tomorrow work for you?"

* * *

She strode into her office at eight-thirty the next morning, remembering the first of their original six sessions. She knew she hadn't left her door open; she had sensitive personnel files in her office and she kept it locked when she wasn't in it. Which meant John Riley had invited himself in.

She just hadn't realized at the time that he'd not only invited himself into her office, but also into her life and, unbeknownst to him, into her heart. Because in the last couple of weeks, when she didn't have his sessions to look forward to, she'd missed him too much to try to lie to herself and say it was a casual attraction.

But he was even less chatty than usual, even for him, that day; it was as if he'd asked for extra sessions on an impulse, a whim, and then hadn't known where to go from there. Did she dare to hope maybe he'd asked for extra sessions because he'd missed…her? She didn't know. Didn't have the guts to ask him. And he was a patient. So for now, as much as her heart (and other parts) were telling her she wanted him, he remained firmly out of reach. "You know, John, when you said you wanted to talk, I thought there would be more actual talking."

"So your whole family's police?" he asked her, but it seemed more as if he was grasping at straws, trying to fill in the silence.

Okay, she'd play along. Their first six sessions had started like this, but it had been a couple weeks since she last saw him and perhaps some backtracking would help. She wanted to be on the same comfortable, easy terms with him that had existed before they'd ended the last of the mandatory sessions; she got more out of him when she approached him not as therapist to patient, but as a friend sincerely interested in another friend and willing to help. "Yep. Going back five generations."

He looked interested. "You ever think about doing the job?"

Oh, Kevin. She swallowed the hurt the memory caused and kept her voice friendly and casual. "I went through the Academy, actually. Graduated and everything. But I guess I was more interested in what was going on inside other cops' heads." A truth, of sorts. She'd learned a bit from him about offering parts of truths that when taken as a whole actually weren't true at all—he was a past master at it.

"Your dad disappointed?"

She thought about waking up in the hospital after the accident with her father crying by her bed. "I think he was mostly just glad I was safe." Another memory. A poor kid named Lenny Harvard in high school. She and Kevin had agreed that they wanted to try seeing other people for a little while, just to see if they could get along with anyone else as well as they got along with each other. They'd laughed about it, called it an experiment, then had a pretend 'fight' at school. Lenny Harvard had offered to take her to Junior Prom. "When I was a kid, he taught me so much self-defense that when my high school prom date got a little handsy, I wound up knocking him out and making a citizen's arrest." Junior Prom hadn't ended well, and it had been the last of the dating experiment for her. She'd known at the time there was no one but Kevin for her. "Poor kid's parents threatened to sue."

John lightened up, as she knew he would. "I actually did get sued when I was a kid."

Spontaneous, no thought. A truth. Good, they were making progress toward going back to where they'd been before. "No!" she exclaimed in mock horror.

Yes, it was working; he chuckled. And it was the most wonderful sound in the world, to her. After the last time she'd seen him in her office, after his 'death in the family', he'd looked so anguished, hurting emotionally so deeply she'd wanted to hug him. It was good to see him smiling again. "I did. My dad was trying to teach me how to drive. So I put our family's Oldsmobile through the side of our neighbor's house." Iris started laughing at that mental picture; to her surprise and delight, he joined in. It was good to see him smile, to laugh, again. "I'm guessing you didn't get your license for a while."

He shrugged. "I was only eight years old at the time."

So…time for a redirect now that he seemed more comfortable. "Are you and your dad still in touch?"

Lowered eyes. "We lost him when I was pretty young, but I—I never talk about him."

She frowned. Back to the issue of loss, then, and the fact that he hadn't been able to talk about…whoever he'd lost a few weeks ago. "Have you lost a lot of people, John?" Silence was her only answer, but she didn't really need one—he was military, and CIA, and whatever else he was right now, whatever had brought him to the NYPD. Loss was part of the life he'd led. "But you don't talk about any of them, do you? Why do you think that is?"

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "It's an occupational hazard. With the work I've done, privacy becomes a habit."

Oh hell yeah. Military, CIA. But he was no longer with the CIA, he was here at the NYPD, even if in name only. "Maybe it's time for some new habits."

John looked up—and she saw the darkness that haunted him turning his eyes from summer-sky to a dark sapphire. "Sometimes, habits are there to protect you."

She was close to something. Very close. "From what?"

He looked down at his clasped hands. Not avoiding her gaze, but it seemed as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. "From life. From the way things go. From the fact that every time you get close to someone, you…you lose them."

"Have you lost a lot of people you were close to?" And she wasn't talking about male friends, or military comrades. The way John spoke, the way he looked, told her this was about a far deeper, more intimate connection. This, then, would be why he was still single, didn't have a significant other. Why he rebuffed advances from others in the Department, according to the gossip Iris had heard in the women's locker rooms attached to the precinct gym. He must have had someone, a long time ago, and he'd lost…whoever it was…to whatever had happened. And in some way, he blamed himself for it. "John, I don't know who she was, or what happened…" _What happened to scar your heart so deeply you never opened it again to anyone else?_ She leaned forward, willing him to listen to her.

"What you're describing is something called survivor's guilt. Something happened to someone you loved, someone very close, and you couldn't stop it or do anything to prevent it, and yet you feel as though you should have, that you should have been able to do something to protect her, to keep whatever it was from happening. I can tell you that everyone feels like that to some extent when they lose someone close to them, but it's misplaced guilt, John. There are simply some things in this world that happen, that you can't do anything about. It hurts, and it's not fair, but the only thing you can do is go on from there. Pick up the pieces and keep going. Guilt won't bring anyone back, John, it just eats at you until it kills you from the inside." She could see that in him, now, it was part of the darkness that haunted him, and her heart ached for him…and for herself.

When he'd gone she locked her office door, sat at her desk, and cried for a long time. She'd felt guilty about Kevin for a long time; her own misplaced survivor's guilt had driven her to college, to a psych major, a psych degree, and a psych license. It had been a long time before she could admit that to herself, and an even longer time before she stopped blaming herself. She'd felt, for a long time, that she should have been able to see Kevin changing, should have been able to do something to bring him back, to get him away from the friends who changed him until he'd betrayed her. But she hadn't, and the night he'd betrayed her, he'd died for it. She'd been lucky that she survived, but she hadn't been able to see that for a long time. Looked at now, she could see he'd made his own choices, had chosen to change to fit in with people he'd wanted to call 'friend' regardless of what it cost him in the long run. It was nothing she could have helped, nothing she could have changed, and it wasn't fair, but life had to go on.

She drove home in a daze, still feeling raw and unsettled, and when she got home she showered, changed, and fell into bed—and then cried again until she slipped into an exhausted sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Gala**

"I've been thinking a lot about our last talk."

_Yeah, so have I._ She'd chided John about shutting everyone else out, but then again, that was what she herself had done. Kevin's betrayal of her had hurt her so deeply, and then he'd died so soon she never had a chance to ask him why he'd done what he did. She'd let those unresolved questions drive her into a career she'd never intended, and then she'd used that as a buffer to increase her own isolation and loneliness. Just like John. "And?"

He looked down at his fingers, but it was a meditative look, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly like someone struggling to express what he felt instinctively. "For a long time, I've been afraid to let anyone in. Trying to avoid getting close, to avoid loss. No matter what I do, it happens anyway."

She leaned forward, intent, casualness gone. "Loss is inevitable. So is love. It's a basic human need, John. None of us can go very long without it." Though she'd gone a pretty good length of time fooling herself into thinking she could. Until she'd fallen in love with John Riley.

John raised his head, and she saw a hint of light in the bottom of his eyes. "Well, maybe it's time for some new habits."

She had a lot of things to think about by the time they finished that session. "Oh, by the way," she said on impulse just as he was putting a hand on the doorknob. "There's a gala coming up at the end of the week. Lots of city politicians, big business figures. The Policeman's Union has a standing table at this event from to annual dues that are officially termed 'donations'. If you're not busy, perhaps you and your partner would like to come." She tried to sound casual, hoping that she didn't sound eager. She'd added that bit about Fusco at the end on the spur of the moment, because she certainly didn't want him to think it was an invitation to a date. Not that she wouldn't love to go on a date with him, but it was completely wrong—ethically and professionally, even though a little part of her was howling that _yes, it sure as hell feels damn right to me_…

"I don't like getting dressed up."

"Neither do I." she shot back candidly. "But we all do things we don't want to do sometimes." And she cursed herself for being an idiot at the same time. _What the hell did I say that for?_

But he smiled at her, and she saw, for the first time in several weeks, a smile of pure humor, no bitterness or sarcasm or other emotion in it. "I always did think you'd be a bit of a tomboy." A hint of sadness, or melancholy. "You remind me of someone else I know—used to know. I only saw her get dressed up twice. But she was beautiful when she dressed." He looked back at Iris, the melancholy gone. "You'd look good too. I'll think about it." And he was gone.

* * *

Since the words 'I'll think about it' from a man almost inevitably meant 'when the sun shines in Hell', she was not expecting to get a call four days later from John Riley. "Still have seats open at that gala?" he asked.

Her mouth actually dropped open for a long moment before she collected her wits. "Yes, we do. Table's never more than half full."

"I'll be there. So will Fusco. Black tie?"

"Yes." It was all she could think of to say. Her stomach had suddenly acquired butterflies—no, scratch that, they were pterodactyls. Her mind flew wildly to her closet, thinking about the simple black dress she'd been planning to wear, and wondering suddenly if it would be too plain for an evening with John Riley.

She systematically pulled every dress she owned out of the closet. There was a lovely deep red dress she'd bought on an impulse at a downtown boutique only a few months before and hadn't yet had an opportunity to wear it; she considered it for a moment, the reluctantly put it aside. Too bright for an evening business event. The same with the dark emerald satin cocktail dress; the color would be inappropriate for a business evening.

She had a couple of black dresses, mostly plain, simple things; Melissa, one of the few women Iris could consider a friend, though she was too busy to call Mel a close friend, was on the hunt for a man and tended to drag Iris along with her on some of her internet-matchmaking-site dates. Iris usually dressed simply and plainly, trying to make it clear that she was certainly not in the market for a man.

There were really only two dresses in her closet suitable for this event, and only one was one that she thought John might like. A form-fitting black sheath with black sequins; dark and businesslike, but a subtle gleam of light from the sequins that would catch the eye but not be glaring. She put it on, looked at herself in the mirror; good. Subtly pretty but not loud, flashy or overwhelming. "So what do you think?" she asked Zeya, who was lounging on the dresses spread out over Iris's bed gleefully getting cat hair all over Iris's clothes.

Zeya blinked big gold eyes, twitched an ear, then rolled over insouciantly on her back. Her body language spoke of a cat's supreme indifference to all things human. "Oh, fat lot of help you are," Iris chuckled as she picked the cat off the bed and started to gather up her dresses. "Come on, let me get this mess cleaned up. I don't want to be late." _John's almost always punctual. I could hardly do less._

The gala was going to be held in the dining hall of one of the biggest hotels downtown. Soaring ceilings, fine china and food served by the best chefs that one of Manhattan's finest five-star hotels had to offer. Iris felt a little nervous as she walked up the front walk to the front doors, showed her card to the hostess, and barely listened to the directions to the ballroom. It wasn't really needed; all she had to do was follow the stream of other well-dressed figures heading into the ballroom.

She knew John was habitually punctual—that military sense of timing, she assumed. But she also wasn't expecting to spot him as soon as she walked in. He wasn't really close to the entrance, he and Fusco were mingling with the crowd by the buffet tables, but somehow her eyes found him in the middle of that crush of bodies in the middle of the room. He turned almost at the same time, and their eyes locked across the room. Iris felt a shiver of excitement trickle down her spine as he crossed the room and gallantly offered her his arm, which she took. It felt warm and solid and reassuring under her hand, and she sternly told the pterodactyls—no, dragons now—in her stomach to behave. _You're not a giddy schoolgirl, Iris Campbell!_ She scolded herself for what seemed like the millionth time since she'd met him.

John kept her arm in his as they threaded the tables. "Thanks for getting me in, Doc."

She smiled at him. "Hey, you're the one doing me a favor. The NYPD has a table at this gala every year. I'm always looking for people willing to come represent the precinct."

John smiled at her. "Thank you. I think the tuxes keep them away." He twitched at his bowtie in irritation, sending it askew.

Iris laughed. "It's good to see your empathetic side, John. It shows real progress."

He smiled at her—and didn't push her away when she (daringly) reached up to adjust his tie.** "**I'm glad I could join you." His eyes roved up and down her figure, and she didn't need a psych license to read the admiration and approval in his eyes. "Um, you look stunning, by the way. And it's good to see this other side of you too." Her heart skipped a beat as she looked into the warm blue gaze, and the world fell away for just a moment.

Then John's partner Fusco cleared his throat. "I feel like a waiter in this thing. You know, I don't think I've worn a cummerbund since senior prom."

It broke the mood, and she smiled as they got to the table—then smiled again as John graciously pulled out a chair for her. _Damn it, Iris, remember you can't have him. It's completely wrong!_

Another session. Another couple steps back.

It was really getting frustrating, the way she could get inside John's inner barriers, see enough to tantalize her and give her a glimpse of the man she knew by now that she was in love with, but then in sessions, in the mornings, it was back to square one all over again. Half the time she couldn't understand why he'd asked for the optional sessions—and half the time she did. She felt instinctively that they were making progress, that in the course of their conversations he was getting what he needed, but damn the man for not simply coming out and saying it. Everything she wanted to know from him had to be worked for, had to be pried out of him. "You're even less chatty than usual."

He shrugged awkwardly**. "**It was a long night."

She leaned forward.** "**Want to talk about it?" Silence. There was that backstep again. Usually, though, she could get a reaction when she challenged him; she tried that now. "Okay. How about we discuss payback instead? I got you into the gala. Now you give me something real about yourself. No more shutting me out. Tell me something you're not so proud of, starting with how you deal with grief." She still wanted to know who the 'death in the family' was that he'd been so broken up over at their last mandatory session.

And as usually happened when she challenged him, she got a bit of truth. "There was a woman once. She meant everything to me. I kept her at arm's length. I went away for a long time. Then I learned she died."

A breakthrough. Iris had known there had to have been someone—John hadn't gotten to forty-plus years without having had at least one serious romantic attachment—but she'd wondered what had happened. "So what happened? Talk to me, John. If you ever want to be able to move on, you have to grieve."

John looked up at her, and she saw the haunted darkness in his eyes again. "I'm not sure I know how to do that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Pain**

She dropped her laptop bag in the backseat, then slammed the door with a bit more force than necessary. Inside her car, the small rainbow prism she had dangling from her rearview mirror danced with the vibrations traveling through the car frame.

_Damnit, Iris_, she paused, bracing one arm against the roof of the car, taking deep breaths to steady herself. _Come on. Control yourself_. But it was so hard, when she had an almost overwhelming urge to punch something. _If I knew I was going to be this angry, I would have brought gym clothes with me and hit the precinct gym._ Punching a bag right now sounded like a very good idea. _I was hired for this job because I'm a damn good psychologist. They have never questioned my decisions or recommendations before. Why the hell would they start now?_ Over Andy Bowers, of all people—the last person in the precinct who should be walking around with a loaded weapon. _Like pouring alcohol on a fire—they're just setting things up for something to happen!_

And she was worried—okay, terrified now—for Kim Bower.

The sound of raised voices caught her attention, and she blinked as she raised her head, her own anger forgotten. What the hell…?

She skirted the long, sleek purple '67 GTO that recently had started parking next to her own quaint little 1970 Rebel. She'd often wondered over the last few weeks who the owner was; never had the guts to find out, given the Cops' Rule About Talking To Shrinks.

And there, on the other side of the GTO and around the back of the minivan parked another space down, was Andy Bowers.

_Son of a bitch._ She didn't really want to tangle with him; didn't want to talk to him. But it was his voice, raised in anger, shouting, that had gotten her attention, and even as she paused, undecided, she saw his hand rise, then fly forward. And it was followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Anger rose in her. _That's exactly what I was afraid of. I wonder who pissed him off this time, a rookie? _She stepped away from the back of the GTO; away from the minivan, putting herself plainly in Andy Bowers' line of sight, then strode toward him. He had a sudden guilty look—and then Iris saw why.

Kim Bowers was cringing away from Andy, half-turned toward the body of the car she leaned against. It was her that Andy had struck—her nose was bleeding now. The sight infuriated Iris; she barely recognized her own voice, distorted in anger, as she snarled, "This is exactly why I didn't sign off on your evaluation."

"But I'm back on the job," he smirked.

"Yeah. Who'd you bribe or bully to get your way this time?" Iris continued walking forward until she was between Andy and Kim; behind her, Kim had slid down the side of the car until she sat on the pavement, sniffling. The sound just made Iris even angrier. "Turn around and walk away, Andy."

"The hell I will. She's my wife," Andy Bowers snarled.

Iris ignored him as she turned and crouched next to a sniffling Kim. "Are you okay? Here, let me see..." The slap Iris had seen wasn't the first blow Andy had landed; Kim's left eye was red and would be a magnificent shiner by the next day. "Come on, Kim. I'll take you inside, get you looked at."

"The hell you are! She's going home with me!" Andy reached down, grabbed iris's arm.

She jerked her arm out of his grip. "No one is going anywhere with you."

And then the next instant she saw stars as her forehead impacted the side of the car. Andy had struck the back of her head, and in her crouched position, she'd lost her balance and hit the car door.

Reflexes born of years of self-defense lessons from first her father, then police academy, kicked in. She sprang to her feet in one smooth move, turning as she did so; when Andy, red with rage, rushed her again, she stepped into his advance, brought her foot up (she had worn heels that day) and stomped the thin heel squarely down on Andy's right instep.

He howled, stumbled back a few steps, but as angry as he was, it wasn't going to stop him for long. She kicked off her heels, ignoring what the rough pavement would do to her pantyhose, and faced him squarely, watching him carefully for any further moves he might make that would signal an imminent attack. And he did telegraph his next move, a split second before he did it; she got her arms up fast enough to take the punch that was meant to impact her face on her forearms instead, and then as he was swinging his arm backward for another punch, she gave him a hard right hook across his chin.

He stumbled backward, then lunged forward again. She raised her arm, gave him a hard elbow to his face, just under his right eye. He roared, flailing out, and as luck would have it, he grabbed Iris's left sleeve. A hard yank left her side unprotected, and he brought his fist up, slammed it into the left side of her torso.

The impact knocked all the air out of her diaphragm, and as she gasped for breath, curling around the pain in her middle, he followed it up by grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking downward. She fell forward, hit the asphalt. Before she could get up, he was on her, punching, kicking.

She got her arms up to protect her face, but she couldn't protect the rest of her. Pain flared up in her lower back as his booted foot slammed into her kidneys; she cried out in pain as her back arched involuntarily. And then she saw his boot coming toward her face, and she curled up on her right side instinctively to protect her face; and then fiery agony exploded in her left side as that heavy boot slammed her ribs with what felt like bone-breaking force. She screamed with what little breath she had left; the pain was too sharp, too fierce to not vocalize it.

And then suddenly the vicious battering stopped; he was gone. She heard shouting, heard Kim screaming; desperate to see what was going on, she managed to roll on her side and get to her hands and knees.

She'd heard the phrase 'cold fury' before. She'd never seen it, however—until now. John Riley's face was set in a cold, hard mask; there was no emotion in his face as he held Andy Bowers' collar in one hand, and smashed his fist into Andy's face with the other. Once. Twice. Then too many times to count. Kim Bowers was screaming hysterically as she grabbed John's arm, trying to keep John from hitting Andy again; and then suddenly there were other voices, shouts, pounding feet; and John's partner Lionel Fusco was there. "John. John! Let him go! I got him! I got him, you check on Red!"

She didn't have time to process Lionel's nickname for her; because as soon as John heard that, he dropped Andy into Lionel's arms, and the arms of two other cops who'd suddenly materialized on the scene, and took two quick steps toward her. "Iris, are you all right?"

"I…think…so…" she was still out of breath from the punch she'd taken to her side, and her left lower back, where Andy had kicked her ribs, was on fire. Her head hurt, throbbing unmercifully from where her forehead had impacted the side of the car, and her eyes weren't focusing too well. She tried to get to her feet, and swore weakly through gritted teeth; she couldn't coordinate movement enough to stand.

"Here, let me help." Large, gentle hands took one elbow, the other started to slip around her back to help her stand. But as he touched her lower left back, the agony in her ribs flared to new life and she almost screamed as her knees buckled under her again.

"Someone call a bus!" Was that panic in John's voice? She wanted to open her eyes to see, but she just hurt too much. Her head hurt, her side hurt, and her ribs were on fire. She knew she was crying as those large hands eased her gently back onto the pavement, and she hated herself for appearing weak, but she just hurt too damn much…

"Easy. Easy. Lie still. There's an ambulance coming." He didn't seem to care that she was a mess, that she was crying, that she'd cut her head on the side of the car and her blood was now staining his white shirt cuffs—he'd taken his suit coat off and was now tucking it under her head, cushioning her from the hard pavement. "Stay with me, Iris, stay with me, please…" She felt warm hands wrap around hers, and she gripped them tightly to stop herself from shaking and to control the waves of pain washing through her.

_John Riley, saying please?_ She wanted to laugh at that, but even as she took a breath, the pressure caused the agony in her ribs to spike again. She couldn't think of anything but pain, her world had narrowed to nothing except the pain, and the hands that held hers tightly. _Please don't let go_, she wanted to beg. _Please don't leave me with all this pain_, but dimly she heard a siren, and lots of voices, and then suddenly the hand started to leave just as a thumb peeled her right eyelid back and a brilliant light flashed into her eye. She whimpered as she fought to hold onto the hand that had gripped hers so tightly.

"Pupils not reacting. She's got a concussion," said a voice, but she ignored it as the hand that held hers left, and she cried as she flailed for it, grabbed air, tried to find it again. Only once before had she felt pain like this—the night of the accident, trapped in the wreckage of a shattered car with two broken legs, alone with three bodies. _Please don't let me die alone,_ she prayed, never realizing her lips were moving. _Please…please…_

And then that hand was back, and she wrapped her fingers around it and held on with everything she had left in her. It was her only connection to the world, the only solid anchor she had as her body floated in a sea of pain, and only later would she vaguely remember someone saying, "Riley, go with her to the hospital."

But she got the meaning of the words as she felt EMTs strap her to a hard backboard without dislodging the hand that held hers. It wasn't going away, then; she wouldn't be alone. She felt the prick of a needle on the inside of her elbow, and then a stinging, burning sensation as EMTs installed an IV and injected some sort of medication; she whimpered, felt the hand close around hers a little more tightly, and then a cool numbness spread from the inside of that elbow. She wept in relief even as she felt the vibration of a gurney's wheels on pavement under her, then a bump as EMTs lifted the bed into the back of a waiting ambulance. The overhead light in the ambulance was too bright, and she weakly tried to bring one arm up to cover her eyes, when a face swam into her blurry vision and blocked out some of the light. "John," she sobbed hoarsely.

"It's okay, Iris. I'm here. Hang on. You're going to be okay. You're not dying on me." He wrapped his other hand around hers as EMTs covered her with a sheet; she was suddenly so cold she was shivering, and that just exacerbated the pain in her side. _Shock_, some small part of her mind thought, but she couldn't focus on anything anymore. The last thing she felt as darkness claimed her was the hands that still gripped her own.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Dark**

Light.

But not the blindingly bright light from the ambulance. This was muted, and somehow more comforting. She could open her eyes fully now, without having to squint, and as she did so she became aware of the dark figure sitting by her bed. For just a moment, she wasn't Dr. Iris Campbell, she was Rookie Officer Iris Campbell, walking up in the hospital after the crash that killed her fiancé, and her father had been by her bed, and had started crying when he saw her eyes open….

But no, this wasn't that long-ago accident, even though, as she opened her eyes fully, she saw her father sitting slumped in the chair beside her bed, head lying on one folded arm as the other held hers tightly. For just a moment she wished it were John's, but of course he wouldn't still be here when she woke…

She lay still for a moment, taking stock of herself. Her head ached; and there was slight pressure across her forehead that told her she had a bandage wrapped across her forehead. Her ribs still ached; but it wasn't the sharp, fiery pain from before; this was duller, more manageable. "Dad?" she finally managed to whisper.

Her father woke, and she saw the dampness in his hazel eyes, so much like her own, as he rose from the chair and leaned over her in the bed to hug her. "Hi, Kitten."

"Hi, Dad." Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away as her father sat back down. "How'd you get here? What happened?"

"Detective at the precinct, John Riley, called. He got my number from your cell phone, I gather you have 'Dad' on speed dial, and he called me and told me what happened—told me to haul my ass in here," and Iris smiled, because it didn't sound like something John Riley would have said. "As to what happened, well…some Detective at the precinct, Andy Bowers, was beatin' up on his wife in the parking garage when you interrupted. So he decided to beat up on you some, too. You got a mild concussion, bruised kidneys, one fractured rib and a couple of badly-bruised ribs, but you're gonna be fine, the doc said."

"John? Is he here?" Iris took a quick glance around the room, saw it was empty, returned her gaze to her father. There was something unreadable in his eyes, there and gone as quickly as she noticed it, and her head still hurt too much to concentrate on anything for too long so she didn't try to pin him on it. "The Department kept pressing me to sign off on Andy's eval. When I wouldn't do it, they overrode my recommendations and put him back on duty anyway."

"Yeah, well, he's sitting in jail now for assault. Not just on you, but that wife of his musta listened to you and dumped him."

"Good. I was worried about what would happen to her if she didn't leave." Iris lay back, closed her eyes. Really, her head hurt, and she just wanted to sleep now.

Her father must have sensed that. "You get some rest now and don't worry about anything, okay? Doc wants to keep you tonight under observation, but if all goes well you'll be going home tomorrow."

"Okay," she whispered, and her eyes drifted closed of their own accord as she slipped into deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

She wasn't invisible this time.

Of course, it would be hard to miss her. The bruise on her forehead was gone—she'd always been a quick healer when it came to little bumps and scrapes and bruises, and of course there was this wonderful little bit of makeup called 'concealer'—but she was still moving carefully, because if she turned the wrong way she could feel the tingle in her lower back from where she'd been kicked. But she held her head high, walked with her usual stride through the suddenly silent lobby, even though she missed that voice she'd grown to love so much…

_Stop it, Iris,_ she scolded herself for the hundredth time since she'd woken up four days ago. _After seeing you like that, you think John's going to want to see you? You hung onto him like a weakling, wouldn't let him leave. _He was probably glad to call her Dad to sit with her instead of him. _Lots of other things he could be doing, you couldn't expect him to still be sitting next to your bed when you woke. He's a patient. And a cop. You're a shrink._ And she was embarrassed at how she'd reacted. She remembered grabbing his hand, refusing to let him leave, and she was ashamed of herself, ashamed of how clingy and weak she must have looked.

In the four days since the garage incident, she'd forced herself to take a hard look at what she'd done. John had to have been embarrassed as all hell. She couldn't imagine how he'd be able to face her in session now, and she couldn't imagine how she'd be able to continue as his therapist, knowing he'd seen the worst side of her. Not as the cool, competent professional she'd been before the incident, but now she'd just proved herself a silly brainless female. She shouldn't have stepped between Andy and Kim; she should have gotten Andy's attention, talked him down, and called other officers to deal with him. It would have been the sensible thing to do. She hadn't reacted sensibly.

_So what must he think of me now_…

_You have to stop mooning over him, Iris_, she scolded herself. _Nothing you can do about it now. The important thing is that he keep building on the progress you were making; that he keep talking about what he thinks and feels and keeps learning coping strategies to deal with his life. It just can't be you that talks him through it, now. You ruined that on your own._ And it hurt so much more because it was true.

She dropped her laptop bag off in her office, then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went back to the elevator, taking it up to the fourth floor where the Homicide squadroom was. And there was John, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. It took all of her control to force down the blush and walk over to him casually.

He saw her coming. "Iris…um, Dr. Campbell."

She could feel eyes on her and swallowed hard. Better make this quick. "Detective Riley." A cool nod, and she was glad her voice didn't shake.

He smiled…and she nearly lost her resolve. "Hi."

"Hi. Are you all right?" Had he gotten into any trouble for hitting Andy Bowers? She couldn't ask the question, but if he was still here, then presumably the answer to that was no.

"Sure. You?" She had to be imagining the genuine concern in his voice, in those blue eyes as he looked at her.

She had to fight not to put her hand to her forehead, where makeup hid the leftover bruise. _Stop it. Just get this over with._ "Yes. Well—I just—I've been wanting to talk to you, actually, about our therapy sessions."

John looked suddenly unsure. "Sure."

She steeled herself. "John, I have to end them. I'm referring you to Doug Trujillo. He's terrific."

He looked confused. "You're firing me as a patient? Look, does this have to do with our last session? You know, I told you about some violence in my past. Maybe you were just upset." He didn't mention the incident in the garage, a fact that cemented her resolve. He was embarrassed and just wanted to forget the whole thing.

Well, she'd do her best to help him with that. "Detective, the reasons for this are not important. What is important is that you continue the work we've started."

He took a step forward, and she saw confusion and…yes, hurt…in his eyes. "Iris, what aren't you telling me?"

And she couldn't stand there anymore and see the hurt and confusion in his eyes. It was best she break it off. Now. Before he—they—both got hurt any worse. "Nothing. I'm sorry, Detective." And she made her hasty exit, feeling his eyes on her as she left.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Rules**

She was still feeling low when she answered the phone that evening. "Hi, Dad."

Her father sounded concerned. "Are you okay? I can come back over if you…"

"No, no, I'm fine, Dad. Thanks."

Silence for a moment; she could almost imagine her father trying to find something to fill in that silence. When he spoke again, it was absolutely the last thing she expected to hear—or wanted to hear. "So how's that young man of yours?"

"What?" She choked on her sip of water.

"That Detective. John Riley. Okay, maybe he's not that young to you—he's older than you—but he's young to me. So how's he doing? Had to have shook him up seein' you like that. I figured that was why he left so quickly."

"Dad, John Riley is—was—a patient."

"Could have fooled me, the way you two were hangin' onto each other."

She nearly choked again. "What?"

"You mean…you two…"

"Um. No, Dad. Really." She knew she had to be red as a tomato right now.

"Why not?"

She put her glass down. "Oh my God. We are not having this conversation. John Riley was a _patient_, Dad. There are rules about getting involved with patients—or former patients."

"Those are professional rules, Kitten. What about your heart's rules?"

"I…" Words failed her as a lump rose to her throat.

"Iris, look. I know you're an adult and you have your own life, your own decisions to make, but take some advice from your old man, okay? I know it's been a long time since Kevin. I know how much it hurt when you lost him—'specially the way you lost him, in the car crash and all."

Tears filled Iris's eyes as she heard her father's words. _You have no idea, Dad_…but he was rushing on.

"Now, it's been almost ten years since Kevin. I know you loved him. I know it hurt losing him. But you can't just shut yourself off for the rest of your life, Kitten. Kevin would have wanted you to be happy, to enjoy yourself." Iris caught her breath in a sob, remembering her last memory of Kevin Holloway. "Shutting yourself off isn't going to do that. I've seen you with a few guys since Kevin died, and I never said anything because I could feel it wasn't serious…but that wasn't what I saw that night in the hospital, Kitten. I have never seen a man look at you the way he did that night."

"How…did he look at me?" she could hardly breathe through the hard lump in her throat.

"Like he wanted to take all your pain away if he could. Like you were the only person that mattered to him in the world. Like he was a ship without an anchor and you were his mooring line. And you were so confused from that head bump—you kept holding onto him, and he kept holding onto you, and the doctors practically had to pry your hands apart. You wouldn't let go, and he didn't want to. I saw his face when docs told him since he wasn't family, he had to leave; he didn't want to go, but he had to.

"Love like that doesn't come around that often, Kitten. Once in a lifetime, if you're lucky. I had that with your Mom. I thought you had that with Kevin, and I doubted there would ever be anyone you loved, and who loved you that much, again. Then I saw John in the hospital that night, and…well, not everyone gets a second chance at love, Kitten. Not a love like that. And maybe I'm an old man, and what do I know, but I want my girl to be happy, and if you don't grab at this, you might never have that chance again."

"He's a former patient, Dad, and there are rules…" Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"If rules get in the way of love, Kitten, then they aren't rules meant to be followed. Love's the only rule that ever means anything. Okay, so you get involved with him, and the psych licensing board finds out. What happens? You get censured. Maybe fired from your job at the police department. Maybe even lose your psych license. But I'm pretty sure you'll still have him. And that will make it all worth it, Kitten. You can always find another job, another career. You're like a cat, you always land on your feet. Even when I've had doubts, you've always proven me wrong. The only thing I've never seen you land on your feet from was Kevin, and you have a shot at it now." He heard her crying. "See, now I've gone and made you all upset. I'm sorry, Kitten, I didn't mean to do that."

"No. No, it's okay, Dad."

After he hung up the apartment was quiet except for Iris's sobbing. Zeya wandered over, purring, settled herself under Iris's hand. Iris started petting the cat almost automatically, but the repetitive motion helped calm and soothe her, and for a long time there was nothing but a cat's soft purring in a silent apartment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Secrets**

She strode into the Homicide squadroom the next evening; and as always, her eyes found him immediately. No matter how crowded a room was, she still could somehow find him—she'd even seen him a couple of times, out on the street, and still she could recognize him. He sensed her coming too; there was a shorter blond woman in front of him, and Iris's heart nearly stopped when she saw the woman give John a kiss, but it was a friendly sort of kiss, not a romantic one, and the woman left almost immediately. John was completely focused on her as she walked up to him. "My office," she said shortly, feeling the stares from the other occupants of the squadroom and not wanting to subject herself—or John—to their scrutiny. She turned and headed for her office, not daring to look behind her to see if he was following. She needed all her courage to do what she was about to do.

It was close to the end of the day, and she'd already turned the lights out in her office, her laptop bag and purse packed up and ready to go. She walked in first, taking a deep breath; whatever happened now, would happen. All she could do was follow her heart—and Dad's advice.

He followed her, his shadow leaving a long dark silhouette across the institutional gray carpeting before he closed the door to her office. He looked tentative, unsure, and she hated that unsure look. Knowing she'd been the cause of it hurt too. So she didn't mince words as she paused in front of her desk, nervous and apprehensive all at once. "Detective." No, too formal. They were beyond that, now. What she did in the next minute, and how he reacted to it, would decide whether they would have any kind of relationship at all in half an hour. "John. You were right. I should have been honest with you about why I had to stop our sessions. I told myself it was for your protection, but really I was just being a coward."

He still looked confused. "So, just tell me." He gave a helpless little shrug as he did so, his body language radiating confusion…but he seemed willing to hear her out.

She took a deep breath. "John, hear me, it's not because of anything in your past. There's nothing you could tell me in a session that would make me run."

Dawning hope in his eyes, and Iris spared a moment to hope, wildly, that what Dad had said was true. "So, you're not afraid of me?" Hope, and indecision. Still confused, though.

She cracked a joke. "Oh, I am. Very." She sobered. _What the hell. Go for it, Iris. What do you have to lose?_ "I have feelings for you, John."

Apparently whatever he was expecting to hear, this wasn't it. "Oh."

"Which is inappropriate, wrong, completely unethical. I can't have a relationship with even an ex-patient. It's so wrong, it's like a cop dating a fireman, it's that bad." She knew she was babbling, couldn't help it.

He looked stunned, dazed, as if he still didn't know what to say. "Okay."

It poured out of her, all of the thoughts she'd had over the past few months, everything she'd tried to deny to herself. "And I've tried to stop it for weeks. I could lose my job, for God's sake. The job I love." The same things she'd told Dad on the phone last night. "And I tried but I kept finding that every time I'm with you, I just feel—I—" Words failed her. "Oh, the hell with it!" She took two quick steps forward, and before he could pull away, or she could have any time to regret what she was doing, was about to do, she rose up on the balls of her feet to steal a kiss.

She sensed surprise. He was stiff, his lips slack under hers, and she closed her eyes in dread. _This is it. Dad was wrong. He doesn't feel the same way, that's going to be it. You'll never see him in session again, either. What the hell. Might as well enjoy it. _She savored it for a moment longer, then, positive that would be the last time she ever saw him, she stepped back, started to step away.

Only to be stopped by his hand on her arm.

She stared at his hand around her wrist for a moment in sheer disbelief before the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm drew her back toward him. "Actually, I'm pretty good at keeping secrets." His voice was husky, deeper than his usual tone, but the desire was thick in his voice as he leaned in. His hand came up to cup her chin, and when their lips touched, his weren't slack now. Tentative, yes. Gentle. But there was a hint of eagerness in the way he kissed her back this time, and she closed her eyes, savored it. _Oh Dad…you were right_…for this one moment, nothing in the world mattered except this man, this moment, and those lips.

But physical needs had to come first, and they finally broke apart, slightly winded, when their bodies reminded them that breathing wasn't optional. A soft chuckle, then John reached up to brush the hair aside from her forehead. "Are you sure you're okay?" he said quietly. "I can see the bruise under the makeup."

"My back hurts where Andy kicked my kidneys, I have huge bruises everywhere, and it still hurts when I take a deep breath, but I had to get up and come to work. Dad was hovering over me so much it was driving me crazy. I love him, but…" she looked up at him. "You went through my phone and found Dad's number."

He looked slightly sheepish. "I'm sorry for going through your phone like that. I had to. The docs at the hospital said only family, and I wasn't family. But…I couldn't leave you alone. You needed someone to stay with you…you kept repeating you didn't want to die alone." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I've been in the military, Iris. I've known soldiers with PTSD flashbacks. You had one, back there—sometime in your past, you came close to dying." She started to speak, but he placed a finger on her lips. "It's okay. I won't push. I know better than anyone else how to keep private things private. But I hope, someday, you'll tell me." Another kiss, a softer, briefer one. "In the meantime, it is time for you to get off work. And go home. You're still healing and it's been a long day for me too." He stepped past her, going to her chair, and grabbed her laptop bag. "I'm at least going to carry this down for you. You shouldn't be carrying anything heavy with a broken rib. And bruised kidneys." He hefted the laptop bag. "And Lionel found your shoes in the garage. I saved them. I was hoping I'd get a chance to give them back to you."

"Cinderella's slipper?" Iris smiled impishly. He grinned at her as they exited her office, him carrying her laptop bag. This late in the evening, the halls were mostly deserted and they met no one they recognized on their way out to Iris's car.

"How did you know this was my car?" she asked in surprise as he led the way directly to her little Rebel.

"I saw you drive up in it once. I'd never pegged you for a fancier of vintage cars, but…" he shrugged as she opened her rear passenger door and dropped her laptop bag into it. "Hold on." And to her absolute surprise, he walked around her car to the purple '67 GTO and opened the door.

"This is yours?" she exclaimed, walking over and trailing a hand over the sleek door panel. "I'd never pegged you for a fancier of vintage cars either." And then something clicked. "You've deliberately been parking your car next to mine for a few months now."

"Guilty," he said with a smile as he opened the trunk of his car, coming up with plastic shopping bag with…yep, those were her shoes in it. "I…I've been thinking about you for a while now. I told myself not to get involved, but…I couldn't help it. This was the only way I could see to be close to you."

"Oh, John." It was silly. Hopelessly romantic. She loved it. "Maybe sometime soon we can go driving in it. It looks like it would be a fun ride."

"It's a great driver. You'd have a lot of fun. When you're better, though." He leaned in for another kiss, both of them again breathless when they parted. "That'll wait until you're better too."

"I'll look forward to it," Iris said with a smile. _Oh hell yeah_. She waited by her car as his taillights vanished into the darkness outside the garage, then got into her car—carefully, as her ribs really were hurting—and closed the door. Then she pulled out her phone, sent a quick text message.

_You were right, Dad. Thanks._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Inquest**

_Good morning._

Iris actually faltered in midstride as she stared at the text message on her phone. Then she texted back, _John?_

_You can read this instead of pretending to read your schedule. _

_How did you know?_

_Harry Morgan was Andy's friend. I'll bet he's giving you the evil eye right now._

She looked up. Yep, Harry Morgan had broken off his conversation with the desk sergeant and was glaring at her. She dropped her eyes quickly back to her phone. _Wasn't my fault Andy decided to beat Kim up in the parking garage for everyone to see._

_And you._

_That was only because I got between them._

_But you did it for all the right reasons. Just hang onto that when we're in front of the panel later._

_Panel?_

_You haven't seen your email yet. Departmental IA panel wants to question all of us later about what happened in the parking garage._

_Shit._

_ Yeah, that's what Fusco said. We'll be there. Not that we have a choice. _

_See you later._ And she tucked her phone into her pocket as she stepped onto the elevator.

She spent the morning filling out paperwork. Her second day back at work, and word had gotten out that she was back, because her email inbox was full of requests for completed paperwork. Worker's comp forms for her medical transport and hospital stay, incident reporting forms, multiple copies of the hospital doctor's notes on what her injuries were, and the extent of the physical damage; the note excusing her from work for the previous four days had to be included, and finally, just when she was fed up with all the paperwork, she hit the note John had seen in both their emails.

_Dear Dr. Campbell: Your presence is required at an investigatory hearing this afternoon at 1 PM, as Internal Affairs needs information from you and any and all other Departmental personnel who were involved in or witnessed the altercation between yourself and Detective Andy Bowers. The inquest should take no more than two hours, so please arrange your schedule accordingly._

She sighed. _Oh well. At least I won't be alone_. John would be there and even if they couldn't sit next to each other, she found a certain measure of comfort in the knowledge that he would still be in the same room, and she therefore wouldn't be alone. _And I'll get to hear what happened that night._ Her memories were a little fuzzy, due to her concussion, and she would have liked to have the gaps in her memory filled.

At one forty-five she headed for the hearing room. She'd been there before, and always found it a little intimidating, but she didn't allow that to show. She sank exhaustedly on the bench outside the room, wincing as the bruised area on her lower back touched the back of the hard wooden bench_. Damn it. Missed my meds_. Her ribs hurt from sitting hunched over in her desk chair all day filling out paperwork and her bruised lower back was on fire. She'd actually taken advantage of the patient's chair in her office for her lunch hour that afternoon, foregoing getting something to eat in favor of being able to recline on something that would support the aching, tender area. _The doctor wanted me to stay home from work for a week. I insisted on coming back after four days. Maybe I should have taken the week. _Sitting upright, standing, and walking only presented temporary relief from discomfort; at the moment all she wanted to do was lie down in her bed._ Also doesn't help that I missed my meds._

But she pushed all of that aside as she saw John and Lionel walking up. "Um, hi," she said quietly, starting to push herself to a standing position.

"Stay down. You don't have to get up for us." Lionel spoke first. "Nice to see you up and about, Dr. Campbell." It was awkward; he clearly had been thoroughly ingrained with the Cops' Rules About Talking To Shrinks In Public, but that was overridden by his natural inclination to be kind.

She smiled at him as he and John sat down beside her on the bench. "Thank you, Detective Fusco. I didn't know you were there that night."

"You weren't in any condition to notice much," Fusco said. "John and I were leavin' when we heard you scream, and we went to find out what happened. Saw you lyin' on ground with Andy beatin' the shit out of you—"

"Lionel," John said.

"Well, what would you call it?" Lionel said to John indignantly. When John didn't respond, he turned back to Iris. "John waded in there and got Andy off you, gave him a few whacks just to even the score, then handed him off to me while he took care of you. He called for a bus, and then the Lieutenant told him to go to the hospital with you because you looked pretty bad, all bruised and bleeding. After John got you settled at the hospital's ER, he tossed your phone, found your Dad's number, called your Dad to wait at the hospital with you and came back to the precinct to fill out the paperwork."

The door to the hearing room opened at just that moment, and a be-suited stiff appeared. "Detective Fusco, Detective Riley, Dr. Campbell, please come in." All three of them got up, started in; John's hand brushed Iris's shoulder in passing, just a casual move, but she could feel the warmth and support in that brief touch before they entered.

There were four people sitting in the horseshoe of desks facing the small table in the center of the room; Iris hoped it wouldn't take long. She'd never really noticed the chair's construction before, but then again, the few times she'd been in here before she hadn't had fractured and bruised ribs and swollen kidneys. Oh well, it was better than nothing.

The tall, balding, overweight man in the second chair seemed to be spearheading the inquest, since he spoke first. "Detective Fusco, please approach the bench." Fusco got up, approached the desk. "Thank you for making yourself available for this inquest. Please have a seat." Iris narrowed her eyes slightly, though she kept her face impassive. She'd heard that voice before, but she couldn't remember where. The nameplate in front of the chair said 'Simon Carter' but the name didn't sound familiar at all.

Fusco sat and gave a brief two-minute statement regarding that night in the garage. At the conclusion, the man in the second chair said. "Thank you for the testimony. Do any members of the panel have any other questions for this Detective?"

A chorus of no's, and the man nodded to Fusco. "Thank you, Detective Fusco. You may step down." Fusco returned to his seat next to John.

"Detective Riley, please approach the bench." John strode up, waited to be acknowledged. His body language had just enough respect in it to not be insubordinate, but there was a subtle shift in his stance that told Iris he thought the whole thing was a waste of time. And his first words proved it. "All due respect to the panel," and his tone clearly indicated he didn't actually think that, "but Internal affairs has videotape of the confrontation in the parking garage. I don't see why this interrogation is necessary."

Simon Carter said sharply, "This is not an interrogation, Detective Riley, and we decide what is necessary, not you. Please have a seat." John sat, albeit reluctantly. "Please take us through the events of that evening."

John gave a short, succinct re-telling of Lionel's testimony, but apparently that wasn't enough for Carter. "The video we have of the events that night show you repeatedly punching Detective Bowers even after his assault on Dr. Campbell had ended."

"_Mr_. Bowers," John emphasized the 'Mr.' "He is no longer a member of the NYPD."

"He has been suspended, yes. But as his wife has chosen to drop charges, it will be up to the Department to decide whether to terminate his association with the NYPD, or to continue his employment, albeit in reduced capacity." Iris felt her jaw drop in disbelief, then controlled herself quickly. _How did Andy get Kim to drop the charges? Did he threaten her?_ It reminded her of what she'd said to Andy that night in the garage. Who had Andy bribed or bullied to get his gold shield back when she hadn't signed off on his eval? What connections did he now have that were keeping him with the NYPD? After something like this, departmental rules said he should be terminated. What the hell was going on?

Apparently that had occurred to John, too; she saw his shoulders stiffen very slightly. He didn't say anything, didn't look at her, but another subtle shift in his body language told her he'd just written off the entire panel as useless. When he spoke, his answers were short, clipped, even briefer than in their sessions. "Mr. Bowers' assault on Dr. Campbell ended. But he was still a threat to his wife. She was bleeding from his prior assault—the assault Dr. Campbell interrupted. I needed to eliminate the threat."

"Are you sure it was Kim Bowers you were trying to protect? Or has Dr. Campbell cultivated a non-professional relationship with you during the course of your counseling sessions with her? We do know that you have been seeing her as part of a department-mandated evaluation."

John's back stiffened. She saw the rigidity in his form, knew that Carter had just pissed John off. "Dr. Campbell never exhibited any behavior that was less than completely professional."

"That doesn't answer my question, Detective Riley. Has Dr. Campbell cultivated, or attempted to cultivate, an inappropriate relationship with you during your counseling sessions with her." This time a couple of other members of the panel, one man and one woman, looked at Carter incredulously.

John's jaw worked for a moment, then he said tightly, "I am no longer seeing Dr. Campbell. She has referred me to Dr. Trujillo, with whom I have scheduled continuing sessions. If you are asking about her behavior while I was in session with her, I have already answered that." The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as his voice became ice and steel. "Any further questioning in this vein violates doctor-patient confidentiality. I will refuse to answer. If pursued, I will contact the Policeman's Union."

"That will not be necessary, Detective Riley. Thank you for your testimony. Please have a seat." This time it was the woman who had spoken. John turned on his heel and returned to his seat next to Lionel, his face an emotionless mask.

Iris didn't have time to think about that, because her name was now being called by Simon Carter. "Dr. Iris Campbell, please approach the bench." She walked up to the table, started to sit down; her back really hurt now. "Dr. Campbell, you will remain standing when addressing the panel."

She straightened in surprise. Across the intervening space, her eyes locked with Simon Carter, and she read animosity, hatred, in them. He didn't like her, it was personal, and for the life of her she couldn't remember where she'd met him before, so she'd know why he hated her! She was so surprised she missed the woman saying quietly, "Dr. Campbell, please describe for us what happened on the night in question."

Carter reminded her. "Dr. Campbell, answer the panel's questions or you will be suspended." Behind her, she heard a rustle; she guessed John was furious now, and she didn't want him to get any angrier than he was already.

"I finished my work for the day and headed for my car. I had the door open and dropped my laptop in it, then was about to get in and leave when I heard what sounded like someone being hit, and then a cry of pain. I investigated the source of the sound and found Andy and Kim Bowers two parking spaces down. Mr. Bowers had just struck Mrs. Bowers and she had a bloody nose and was slumped against the side of their car. I warned Andy, then went to render aid to Mrs. Bowers." She closed her eyes, tried to remember all the events of that night—it had all happened so quickly. "Andy tried to pull me away from his wife. I resisted. He hit …the back of my head—and my forehead hit the side of the car, bruising my forehead. The doctor at the hospital confirmed later that I had sustained a concussion at this time. Due to this concussion, my memories of the rest of the incident are…blurry."

"Please tell us what you do remember," the woman said gently.

"Never mind that, Dr. Campbell," Simon Carter said sharply. "The security camera footage from the garage was evident at this point. You attacked Andy Bowers after he touched your arm, provoking him into an assault on you. You broke his foot, punched him in the face, then gave him a black eye, do you at least remember that?" His tone was scathingly condescending.

"Yes." She could feel his animosity, knew that any attempt by her to amend his version of events would probably just bring more questions. At the moment, she simply wanted to get this whole thing over with and go home. She shifted her stance to place her feet shoulder width-apart, to settle her weight evenly over her hips. It helped the pain in her back, but not much.

"You didn't like Detective Bowers. That's why you didn't sign off on his evaluation."

"My personal feelings have no bearing in this matter." Iris forced herself to keep her voice even. Simon Carter hated her, personally, and she wanted to get out of that room as fast as possible. "As the departmental psych evaluator, my job is to make sure that any patient referred to me is safe to return to duty, that the patient will not 'snap' and perform an act that would be detrimental to public health and safety or the violate the policies of the Department. I had seen no signs that he was making any progress in managing his anger, and therefore it was my professional opinion that he was unfit to return to duty. Now, if that is all, I am still under a doctor's care from a fractured rib and it is time to take the prescribed medications."

"We are not done yet, Dr. Campbell," Carter snapped.

"Then may I have a seat?" She didn't say 'please', but it hung unspoken in the air; she didn't care how hard that chair might be right now, she really needed to ease the strain on her back and ribs.

"No you may not—" Carter began.

The woman stood from where she sat. "This hearing is over. Thank you for your time, Dr. Campbell, Detective Riley, Detective Fusco." Iris turned, headed back to her seat even as John and Lionel stood. She could barely pick up her laptop bag and purse; and she saw John make a tiny, abortive move toward her, presumably to grab her bags for her; but Simon Carter was undoubtedly still watching, and she gave her head a tiny, almost imperceptible shake; he restrained himself, but neither he nor Lionel started to move until she did; they flanked her as she left the inquest room.

She managed to stay upright as she walked out the door, but once outside she dropped onto the bench outside the hearing room, sucking air in through gritted teeth as she blinked back tears. It took a moment before she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and she realized John was sitting beside her. "I'm…all right," she said tightly in response to his worried look. "I…missed my meds this afternoon. I'll be fine." John disappeared from her side; she was in too much pain to ask him where he was going.

"That jerk was a sadist," Fusco burst out as he put her laptop bag on the bench beside her. "I mean, I know Simon Carter knew Andy, and they were friends, but even he should know what Andy did was inexcusable! I'll betcha he's the reason Andy's still on the Force."

"Simon Carter…was Andy's friend?"

"Yeah." Fusco said grimly. "He shouldn't be on this investigation, he should have recused himself 'cause he can't be objective."

"Well, that explains a lot," Iris closed her eyes, took deep breaths, trying to gather her strength. When she opened them, John was in front of her, holding a bottle of water out to her and the bottle of pills that he'd fished out of her purse. "Thanks, John." She took them gratefully, swallowed down the pills with water. "I'm going to wait here until the pills kick in and I can drive home. Thank you," she said, leaning back on the bench and closing her eyes, listening to their footsteps receding down the hallway.

It was a long few minutes before she managed to stand. The hallway seemed endless, and she hurt with every step. She hadn't parked in the garage today, she'd parked out on the street in front of the building and paid for a day's parking, reasoning that the shorter distance to her car would be worth the extra cost. She nearly cried with relief as she got to her car, and when she saw the dark shadow in her peripheral vision, she was too tired to do more than start before she recognized John. "John, you shouldn't be here."

"You're not driving home like this." He took her bags from her hands. "Come on. My car's just around the corner." It was only a short distance to his car, and she dropped into the front passenger seat with a sigh and closed her eyes. The pain meds were kicking in, and she felt drowsy; she closed her eyes, just for a moment, and when she opened then they were in front of her apartment building. "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, John." He started to get out of the car; she laid a hand on his arm. "I'll be okay from here. The meds have kicked in. I'll be fine now. Thank you." But she still felt his eyes on her as she headed into her building.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12: Birthday**

The knock on her door startled her.

Wondering who it could be, she got up off her couch and went to the door, looking through the peephole. Then her fingers flew on the locks on her apartment door. "John!" It had been a couple of weeks since she'd last seen him at the inquest. With their schedules, and the need to keep their relationship a secret from whoever might be watching, especially as she now knew IAB Agent Simon Carter had it in for her, their contact had been limited to brief texts, phone calls, and professional emails.

He gave her a wry smile. "I stopped at the precinct to drop off some paperwork. Lionel told me you'd taken the day off. I figured I'd surprise you." From behind his back he produced a bouquet of deep purple irises with a small lavender teddy bear rubber-banded around the stems. "Happy birthday."

"How did you know it was my birthday…never mind," she sighed. "I know, I know, you're a cop."

"Actually, you have your father to blame for this one." John said as she stepped back and let him walk through the open door into the apartment. "He still had my number from the time I called him. He told me it was your birthday."

"You…and Dad. Dad called you." Iris blinked as she tried to process the thought. _Dad, you're playing matchmaker? You must really like John_. Aloud she said, "Here, let me put these in water." She led the way into her kitchen, detaching the little teddy bear as she went.

Zeya chose that moment to make her entrance, tail twitching. "Watch out, John," she said warningly. "Zeya doesn't like men."

"Um, I don't really like cats that much. I have a dog." John stood still as Zeya wandered closer, sniffing the hems of his pants. A pair of casual track pants, Iris saw now, with battered, well-worn sneakers under it. And on top, a t-shirt that, even though it was loose, somehow seemed to accentuate his well-developed masculine form all the better.

"Behave, Zeya," she warned the cat, but to her absolute surprise, Zeya, having finished her sniff inspection of John's pant cuffs, had commenced purring as she rubbed her chin on John's pants. Iris put her hands on her hips as she stared at her cat. "Oh my God. She's never done that before."

"Really?" John crouched, reached down with one hand; Zeya eagerly rubbed the top of her head against his hand, purring loudly all the while.

"Really," Iris shook her head, still staring. "Dad comes over and she attacks him when he comes in, then hides in the bedroom until he goes. The four days Dad was over here taking care of me while I had the fractured rib she hid the whole time. Dad calls her 'that demented cat'." She shook her head, turned to run water into the dusty large plastic soda cup that was the only thing she'd found big enough for the irises.

"You don't have a vase? I thought all women had stuff like that." He looked like he regretted not having gotten one.

"Dad usually just gets me baseball or football tickets. I'm a Giants fan."

"No one else brings you flowers?"

A flash of memory; Kevin, surprising her with a huge bouquet of deep red roses on Valentine's Day almost eight years ago. And when she'd taken them, she'd found the engagement ring tied around the base of the stems with a tag that said, 'Will you marry me?' She'd been so excited, so happy at the time…she'd had no idea that a year later he would be dead in a car accident after betraying her.

"Iris?" she blinked hard. She'd let the water in the sink run over the brim of the cup; it was now spilling over. She shut the water off hastily, tipping it so the extra water would run out of it even as she hoped John hadn't seen her reaction. "Sorry, was thinking about something," she said quietly.

John didn't say anything, but she knew he'd noticed. He didn't say anything until she'd finished arranging the irises in the cup, snipping the long stems until they fit; Zeya jumped up on the kitchen counter, monopolizing his attention by insisting he keep petting her. Iris finished arranging flowers in the impromptu vase, and there was silence for a moment.

"So what do you do on your days off?" John's eyes wandered around her little apartment. "You asked me, once, if I had any hobbies—do I get to ask you the same question?"

She eyed him speculatively even as her eyes sparkled mischievously. "You want to know what I do in my spare time? Really?"

He eyed her warily for a moment, then shrugged. "If you want to share it with me."

She looked him up and down. He really was gorgeous. "Are you going to mind getting those clothes dirty?"

"Seriously?" he left off petting Zeya and faced her squarely. "Now you have me interested."

"Are you going to mind getting dirty," she repeated. "Yes, I'm serious."

He looked down at himself. "No, I don't mind."

She grinned. "Good. Give me a minute to change my clothes, then." And without waiting for comment, she slipped into her bedroom to change into a plain dark t-shirt and her own track pants, and pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail.

She returned to the kitchen, where John was still standing there, his hands running over Zeya's fur; Zeya was absolutely entranced, lying on her back on the kitchen island purring like a well-oiled jet engine. A quick rummage in one of the drawers under her kitchen island produced two large dog leashes; good, she was sure she'd had an extra one there. She handed one to John. "Here. Usually they have them but if it's been a while since we got donations, or if there are a lot of volunteers today, there may not be an extra one and I usually find it better to bring my own anyway. You never know if the donated ones will work properly if they aren't donations of new leashes."

"A dog leash? Iris…" But she was already slinging her small backpack purse over one shoulder, and he just followed along like a bewildered puppy as she stepped out of her apartment, waited for him to exit too, and then locked her door behind him. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?" he asked her as they fell into step beside each other heading down her apartment hallway.

"I think I'll let you find out for yourself." She led the way to her Rebel. "All right. In."

"Can't I drive?"

"Nobody drives my baby except me. And Dad, since it was his car first." John got in, albeit slightly reluctantly, and she slid behind the wheel herself. "So you're one of those guys who are happier driving than being driven. I should've known." Well, he was going to get used to her driving if they were going in her car.

Although, she mused as she pulled out from behind his purple GTO, maybe next time they'd take his car. As long as he didn't mind mud and dog and cat hair in his car.

She didn't offer any details or information, and he didn't ask any as they drove along sunny late-morning New York streets. Traffic had eased from the lunchtime rush, and they were in the lull before the afternoon rush hour, so in no time at all she was pulling up in front of a long, low building. As they got out, she saw John's eyes land on the sign just outside the front of the building._ Municipal Animal Shelter_. "Iris…"

"I volunteer here in my spare time." Then, tentatively, "I thought you might be okay with this since you said you had a dog. Which you've never mentioned in session, of course."

"My building doesn't allow dogs. My friend Harold keeps Bear at his place for me. Bear's sort of become Harold's therapy dog." He looked up at the building. "You volunteer here? What do you do?"

"Walk the dogs. Socialize the cats. Wash laundry, dog and cat dishes, cages." She shrugged. "Whatever needs doing. There's always a shortage of hands." Then, tentatively, "If you don't want to stay…"

He looked at her. Looked at the building. Then reached back into the car to grab the spare dog leash she'd handed him back in her kitchen. "Let's go."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Shelter**

The volunteer coordinator's face lit up when he saw her. "Iris!"

She went around his desk to give him a hug. "Hi, Frank. Sorry I've been away the last couple of weeks. Missed you!"

He hugged her back. "Missed you too." Then he looked past her and smiled again. "And who's this?"

"This is John. I kind of dragged him out here today, he wasn't expecting this. Figured I'd show him around. He'll work with me, and then maybe if he likes it you might see him in here by himself sometime."

"Well, we're always short-handed and we love extra hands. So, welcome, John." John shook the older man's hand. "Sign in on the volunteer's board, so we know who's here."

"I got him, Frank." Iris was already signing her name on a clipboard to one side of Frank's desk. "I'm still healing from a fractured rib, so no large puppies today. I think I'll probably confine myself to the cat rooms."

"Well, if you're looking for something light and non-strenuous, we have a new arrival that I was hoping you could work with. Five year old white pit-type female, came in on a cruelty case, another long-term kenneling issue. The vets are discussing her case now, but for the moment, after the court case is done…well, it doesn't look good. I doubt we'll be able to adopt her to someone who will have patience with the kind of care she needs."

"Oh, Frank." Iris looked distressed.

"She came in a week ago and all she does is hide under the dog bed in her run. We've had a couple of volunteers come in to try and work with her, and she does respond after a long time, but she's still very, very timid. If we can't get her to come out of her shell a bit, the vet might not have a choice."

"I'll see what I can do. Where is she?"

"She's in the back of the Quarantine room. She reacts badly to noise and chaos, so it was decided to put her back there. Oh, and watch out for your clothes—she's never been potty-trained and she doesn't know not to go in the kennel."

"Does she have a name?"

Frank hesitated. "Her owner named her Coke. He's now in jail for drug charges, so I guess you can figure out where she got that name. But since her chances don't look good, well, you know we try to resist getting attached to the ones who…don't have a good forecast."

"I'll see what I can do. Come on, John."

John followed her out of the volunteer office. "They haven't even given this dog a name?" he said.

"John, the shelter gets over five thousand animals a year. Half of them are too badly damaged, physically or mentally, to adopt out, and they have to be put to sleep. That makes this shelter a 'high-mortality' shelter, and as a result, the public doesn't want to come here to adopt—which drives the mortality rate even higher. I got Zeya here, by the way—she was the only survivor out of a litter of kittens who'd been thrown away in a garbage bag on the side of the road, and she was so infested with fleas she didn't have any fur left. It was such a surprise when her fur started growing in healthy and I realized she was a Burmese." She stopped in front of a door marked 'Quarantine'. "Here we are."

She pushed the door open and walked in; John followed her in, then paused by the door, nose wrinkling. "Iris, my God, it smells in here."

She took a deep sniff; ammonia, bleach, chlorine, animal urine and feces. The usual animal shelter smells. She was used to it, but she supposed it might be a bit overwhelming to him. "You get used to it after a while. It doesn't bother me." She saw his look. "John, if the shelter had enough volunteers and money for staff it wouldn't smell or look like this. They're woefully understaffed and under-budget; half of their operating budget every year is from public donations. That's why volunteers are so necessary. We help keep this place going, and we don't ask for pay." She sighed. "I'll understand if you never want to come back, John. There have been times when I never wanted to come back ether. It's heartbreaking work, putting time and effort into rehabilitating an animal only to see time run out and it gets put to sleep anyway. A lot of people come here with this romantic notion of being able to help an animal find a home, but then they can't deal with the reality—seeing an empty cage where just yesterday there was a dog or cat you were working with. You hope it was an adoption, but you're afraid to ask because you don't want to find out that perfectly good pet was put to sleep because the shelter didn't have space. You say a prayer for the ones you can't save, then go on to save the ones you can. You have to have enough empathy to care, but enough distance not to let it ruin you emotionally if the animal doesn't make it." She headed for the last cage at the end of the row, opened it, disappeared inside.

John followed, thinking hard about what she'd just said. And then blinked in surprise when he got to the end kennel and looked inside. "Iris, you're sitting on a dirty floor."

She shrugged as she got on her hands and knees, looking under the long, low dog bed at the back of the kennel. "There she is. She's just afraid to come out." She sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor of the kennel, then looked up at him. "Come on in and make yourself comfortable. It might be a while."

John stared at the floor. Stared at Iris, who was now fishing around for something in her pocket. Then he gave a shrug and walked into the dog run, closed the chain-link door, sat down next to her as she placed a bacon-strip dog treat right beside the dog bed. Then another one a few inches away, closer to her. And then a third treat halfway between herself and the second treat. A fourth one went on the floor next to her knee. Then she leaned back against the wall with a couple more strips in her hand, one of which she handed to John. "You hold this." He took it.

She kept her voice low and pleasant as she spoke to him. "I gather this wasn't what you thought you'd be doing today."

"No. Not even close."

"So what would you be doing?"

He shrugged. "Cleaning my gun. Going to the gym. Checking out a couple of bars."

"Looking for trouble." Iris grinned at him. "Do you have any hobbies that involve not shooting someone or looking for trouble?"

He blinked. "Um…"

She chuckled. "Don't answer that." They sat in companionable silence for a short time, then she started to hum, softly, a gentle, quiet melody. More like a lullaby.

John was just starting to wonder if she really had seen a dog under the bed when he saw a pink nose, ringed with white fur, poke out from under the bed, just far enough to grab the first bacon strip, and then disappear back under it. Iris acted like she didn't notice, just kept humming quietly. A minute or so later, the dog under the bed got a little braver and poked her whole head out to get the second treat, and John got a chance to see her. White fur, grayish in spots from dirt and grime and filth. Wary brown eyes looked shyly at him for a moment before disappearing back under the bed.

But not for long. The bacon treats were apparently irresistible; the dog crawled halfway out from under the dog bed to get the third one, and John saw the front legs and paws—hopelessly misshapen and twisted. "Iris!"

The dog vanished under the bed again, and Iris sighed. "John, keep your voice soft. Don't make any sudden moves, don't raise your voice."

He lowered his voice, gentled his tone. It still didn't hide his shock. "Iris…the dog's legs…"

"That's what Frank meant by long term kenneling problem. This dog was kept in a cage meant for a puppy long after she'd outgrown it. She didn't have enough room to stretch her legs or even stand up straight, but her body kept growing. Her legs grew malformed and twisted because she didn't have enough room to stand."

The thought of how long that had to take horrified John. "But…that means...she has to have been locked in the cage for months."

"Years. She's about fifteen or twenty pounds now, but for her breed and type she should be about forty. She's about the size of a four month old pit mix pup. For her growth to have been that stunted, she had to have been in that too-small cage since she was about four months old. And she's five years old now according to the vet's estimates."

He stared. "Do you…think she's in pain?"

"Yes. That's what Frank meant by not being able to find a home that would accommodate her needs. She's going to need pain meds the rest of her life, daily doses of vitamins and aspirin in her food, cortisone shots and joint supplements just to help the joints that are supporting her weight now to continue to do so. A controlled diet because she's starving right now, she's very skinny, but if she gains too much weight her legs will give out and break under her." A slight break in Iris's voice. "That's why they didn't give her a name. Her forecast isn't…good."

The lure of the bacon strip was too much for the dog to resist, and she came all the way out from under the bed, crawling timidly toward the third treat a few inches from Iris's knee. John thought about Bear, about how happy the big dog was when John threw balls for him in the park to fetch, and felt an aching sadness. This dog was never going to enjoy that; never be able to run, or even walk without pain. "How do you do this, Iris?" he asked quietly. "How do you put in time and effort into helping dogs like this when…when you know they might be put to sleep?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "I asked you much the same thing during our second session. You said 'if I don't save these people, no one else will.' Do you remember that?" He nodded. "So now I'll tell you the same thing. If I don't, who will?" Iris said quietly. "We don't have enough volunteers as it is, and very few of the ones we have will put in time and emotional energy into a dog that will never have a life full enough to enjoy that love and care. Many dogs like this one are so emotionally damaged they don't have that capacity to love anymore. They've been hurt so often, and are so afraid of being hurt again, that they shut themselves off, refuse to trust anyone, other dogs or even humans, again. And then they die. Because life isn't worth living if you can't love." She was quiet for a moment, then said, "That's why I told you I understood. We both do the same things."

The dog had been inching closer to them as they'd been talking. Iris was holding a bacon strip in her hand, casually, acting as if she wasn't paying attention to the dog. The dog made a wild grab, secured the treat, and retreated a few steps while she gulped the treat and regarded them warily. Iris never stopped humming; she produced another one. This time the dog stayed closer when she took the treat from Iris's hand; and then closer still. After the fourth treat, she let Iris touch her head. Warily, cringing slightly, but she let Iris touch her head, pet her ears.

And then as she took the fifth treat and crunched it, she made up her mind about Iris. After finishing the morsel, she studied Iris for a moment, then to John's complete surprise, folded her misshapen legs under her and laid her head in Iris's lap with a soft sigh. Iris's left hand never stopped fondling the dog's ears, scratching gently behind them; but now her right hand came up and gently started stroking the dirty white fur along the prominent spinal ridge. The dog gave a little whimper, but didn't move away; she snuggled closer to Iris. When John reached over carefully to offer his bacon treat, she took it, watching him warily; but when he reached out to pet her head, she submitted to the caress with a gentle sigh.

John told himself the stinging behind his eyes was from the bleach and ammonia as he and Iris sat and silently petted the white dog.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Connection**

John gave a huge sigh as the door to Iris's apartment closed behind him. "And you do this on your days off?" he asked her. "I'd think you'd want to stay at work."

Iris laughed as she pulled the rubber band out of her hair, shaking it out so her curls would dry. "Yes, this is what I do on my days off." She looked at him, still grinning. "If you'd like you're welcome to use the bathroom to clean up. Come on." She beckoned to him, and he followed her down the hallway to her bedroom, where she opened one of her dresser drawers and fished around for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. "Take those muddy clothes off and put them in the blue hamper in the bathroom. Don't put them in the white one; the blue one has the clothes I wear to the shelter."

"I can wash my own clothes." He balked.

She rolled her eyes. "Every man I know will throw all of his clothes in one basket and wash them all at once, and then be surprised when good clothes come out with dog hair. I would hate to see the dirt we just washed off Snow at the shelter be re-deposited on your good suits."

He opened his mouth to say something. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. After a moment he said with mock meekness, "Yes, Ma'am." And disappeared into the bathroom.

Smiling victoriously—she'd finally won an argument with John Riley!—she returned to the kitchen, poured herself a generous glass of water and drank it down as she listened to the water running in her bathroom. She wished she dared to walk in on him, but she wasn't quite that comfortable with him yet—and she was hardly in any condition herself to enjoy the inevitable result of walking in on a nude man.

After they'd managed to coax the dog out from under the bed and had petted her long enough for her to be comfortable with them, they'd decided to try giving her a bath. Her white fur had been slimy with God-knew-what. John had carried the dog to the bathing facilities and put her down in the bathtub, then started running water into the tub. To both their surprises, she seemed to like the warm water and soap; she made no effort to climb out, even if she'd been able to with those malformed legs, and stood quietly as they washed her once, drained the gray water out of the tub, then washed her again, and then again, until the water in the tub was clear. John washed her head, back and body, leaving Iris to gently shampoo and rinse the twisted legs; then when they'd finished John had insisted on wrapping the dog in the towel and dry her off, since Iris's back was hurting her from the stooped position. They'd both been thoroughly wet and dirty by the time they were done.

And when they'd signed out on the visitor's board, John had told the volunteer coordinator that the dog would be called Snow.

She was glad she'd taken him with her that day. From what she'd pieced together of his past, most of his adult life—both work and leisure time—had been spent in violent pursuits. Even just going down to the gun range or on a bar crawl led to violence. There probably hadn't been many opportunities, if any at all, for him to do something constructive, something that helped instead of hurt, or that helped without bringing hurt to someone else. She sensed that this afternoon had been one of the rare times when he'd gotten a chance to do something…good.

She headed down the hallway to her room, preoccupied with her thoughts, hummed to herself as she stepped out of her dirty pants and stripped off her shirt, then turned her back to inspect the bruises and soreness over her kidneys in the mirror over her dresser.

A soft gasp attracted her attention, and she whirled-and turned pink. John was standing there shirtless in her bedroom doorway, freshly washed, wearing the sweatpants she'd given him but carrying the shirt. "Iris…"

"I'm sorry…" she blushed and mumbled, grabbing for her own sweats and shirt.

"No…no, it's…those bruises." He took a step into her room, and she swallowed hard at the hunger and desire in those blue eyes. It had been so long since anyone looked at her like that…she couldn't even remember the last time Kevin had looked at her and wanted her.

She stood frozen as he crossed the last few steps to her, took her clothes out of her suddenly nerveless hands, and then trailed a hand down her side, the lightest of touches over the rainbow of bruises discoloring her ribcage and kidneys. "He really hurt you."

"I…I handled it all wrong." She blushed, stammered. "I…I should have talked to him, talked him down, then called into the precinct for help. I shouldn't have gotten between him and Kim. I just…I saw her nose bleeding and she had a fresh bruise, and I was…so furious with him. The Department had been pushing me to sign off on his eval, and I resisted because I knew if he were allowed back on duty someone was going to get hurt who didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of his temper."

"Someone did. You." He stepped behind her, and she saw him in the mirror inspecting the bruises on the other side of her back. Then he turned to look at the dark bruise still discoloring her lower right side just above her waist. "I was coming out to my car. I heard you scream. I knew it was your voice."

"It…was my fault. I handled it all wrong. I should—"

She stopped, because he'd laid a gentle finger on her lips. "Iris. You did exactly what you should have, you protected an innocent from further harm. And you got a few good ones in yourself—he had a black eye and chin and a fractured foot." She nodded. "You just need to know how to block or evade a punch. You have good reflexes."

"Not good enough to keep from getting the shit beat out of me, as Lionel put it."

He leaned in close, slid a hand under her chin, cupped her chin till she faced him. "If you want, Iris, I can teach you a few things. Nothing you're ever going to be taught in a self-defense class, or even Police Academy, but dirty tricks that will bring a very quick end to a fight if you're ever in one again."

She felt herself being drawn into those deep blue eyes, and tried to crack a joke. "Is this one of your coping strategies? If you can't be around to protect someone you care about, you teach them what you know about self-defense?"

"Yes," he said. "And I intend to teach you enough self-defense that you'll be able to hold off anyone until I can get to you." He took a step back, then frowned. "What's this?" The tip of one finger traced the two long, straight red scars on her thighs. "Iris, those look bad."

"Oh," she shrugged. "Car accident almost ten years ago. The front passenger seat flew backwards and hit my upper legs and broke both of them."

"'Don't let me die alone'," he said quietly. "You said that back at the hospital. Was that what happened?"

"Yes. It was a while ago, John. I'm fine now." She quickly sat on the end of her bed, started pulling her sweatpants on.

"Someone died in the car with you."

Her breath caught in her throat. "How did you know?"

"You just said you were in the rear passenger seat. The front seat hit your legs and broke them. There had to have been a dead weight in that seat to break your upper legs, those are the thickest, strongest bones in the human body." He looked at her. "There was a body in that seat. And…did the driver survive?"

Old, old pain, pain she thought she'd gotten over, flashed through her. "No. Dad told me…when the EMTs got there they thought they'd have four bodies, but I was still alive. I made it. They didn't."

"That's how you knew what survivor's guilt was." He pulled her upright, stepped up behind her, wrapped strong arms around her, then dropped a kiss on her skin between her neck and shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Iris."

She felt tears blur her eyes at the gentle tone in his voice, leaned into the kiss, that welcoming strength. "It's okay, John. I'm okay." She tried to step away, but he held her, refused to let her go, and she simply ended up turned around in his arms, facing him. A long moment when she could see empathy, sympathy, sorrow in his eyes—for her—and then he leaned down to kiss her.

The kiss deepened. Lengthened. She let go off her sweatpants, let them pool on the floor under her, stepped out of them. Found the edge of the bed with the back of her knees, and drew him down with her.

And then there was no more talking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

_**Author's Note:** Okay so I thought I was done. I hit 'Complete'. Forgot to consult with my muse, however, before I did it, because she plainly had other ideas-fed, of course, by the emails and messages I've gotten from folks who said I have to find Snow a home and have to tie up the Simon loose end. So no, this one isn't quite done yet._

_And for all the folks who wrote me messages saying I've 'betrayed' the Carter/Reese relationship-there's no betrayal. That lives on in fanfiction, of course. I am still finishing Redemption, it's just kind of slightly on hold at the moment. I'm involved in the One Baltimore movement to amend the city's charter and create citizens' advisory committees in the wake of the recent unrest, so between going door-to-door on that campaign, my hectic work schedule, our guitar business, and advancing the solar farm proposal for our neighborhood, I have had very little time to write. My usual chapters are five pages long-the chapters for WTH have all been shorter than that. And...Taraji has left the show, is doing quite well for herself over at 'Empire', and the Iris/John pairing offers interesting exploration into John's character, so that's what I'm running with and I make no apologies for that. I'm going to finish this through the John/Iris scene in the last season, then mark this complete till next season starts. If Wrenn Schmidt's miniseries 'Outcast' isn't picked up for a regular series by Cinemax, we'll get to see more of her on POI next season than we did this season and there will be plenty of opportunity to get to know her better._

There was an avid, hungry, eager look in his intense blue eyes as he settled next to her on the bed. It was matched by the hunger in his kiss as he claimed her mouth; as she parted her lips and let him in, she felt a hint of his hunger echo in her. She kissed him back just as eagerly, though a small part of her was surprised at herself. It had been a long time since she'd had a man in her bed—not since Kevin, actually. She'd had a couple of boyfriends in the seven years since Kevin's death, but they had been casual, nothing serious, and she had never gotten past a few tentative pecks—she simply couldn't imagine herself in bed with any of them. But with John, it was different—for the first time in a while, she'd found she actually wanted to have sex with a man. She hadn't felt real desire since that fateful night when her life changed forever.

But something made John draw back. "Are you all right?' he asked hesitantly. "I know you're still bruised, and if you're not…ready…"

"No! No, it's…" she knew her face was a bright pink. "John, really, I do, it's just…" She hesitated a moment, torn between wanting to tell him everything and wanting to just bury it all inside her and forget it, as much as she could, and just enjoy being with him.

"Iris, whatever it is, you can tell me." He settled on one elbow on the bed beside her, and she was conscious of the bulge in the sweatpants at his groin. He wanted this, was hungry for it, but he was willing to put aside his own needs and listen to her.

And it was that willingness that made up her mind for her. "I…it's been…a while." She swallowed hard, stared at the ceiling so she wouldn't have to look into those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through her sometimes. "I…got engaged. When I was twenty-two. Kevin…he was the son of my father's partner. We grew up together, went to school together, graduated Police Academy together. He proposed right after Academy, but we sort of put it on hold until we were both settled into our careers as cops." Another hard swallow to keep her voice from shaking, but she knew her eyes were filling with tears and she closed them tightly. "He died in the car crash that broke my legs. And I…there hasn't… been anyone since." A deep breath. "It's been almost eight years."

"Iris." A soft whisper in the gathering darkness in her bedroom. "I'm so sorry." And she could hear the sincerity in his voice.

"I just…I never met anyone I really liked enough." And the few fragmented memories she had of her hazing had fed her revulsion for sex. Every time she'd met someone she'd sort of liked, very casually, when they kissed her she remembered the emotions from that night. Didn't remember the hands, couldn't remember anything about the bodies, barely remembered the voices, but the pain, the shame, the humiliation, had been constant. "Kevin was the only one for me from high school, even through the Academy. I never met anyone I…liked…like that…even through college and grad school for my psych license." Somehow, she couldn't come straight out and say 'you're only the second man I've ever wanted.' After all, she'd had plenty of other men inside her. She just didn't remember—and didn't want to remember—that night.

"Iris." That gentle whisper again.

"So it's…not that I don't want you, I do. I just…it's just…" She knew her face was flaming again.

"You're a little rusty." A warm chuckle from the darkness beside her, and large, strong, gentle hands came up to cup her face. "If you're sure about this…"

"Yes," she whispered breathlessly, heart hammering in her chest. The gentle touch on the side of her face had started her heart racing, and a tingle started deep inside her. It only spread more as he brought his other hand up to push a lock of her unruly red hair away from her face, and then he lowered his head and kissed her lips.

"Just lie still and enjoy it, then." A murmur in the darkness, a bare whisper of sound, and then she felt those lips leave hers, travel down the side of her jaw, to her neck, her chest. Gentle hands slid her bra straps off her shoulders, and then the bra itself was gone. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting a sudden surge of momentary self-consciousness. He'd had a life she couldn't even begin to dream of, with who knew how many women, and she…she was the next thing to a virgin.

A soft chuckle in the dark. "Don't, Iris. Don't compare yourself to anyone you think I might have had. You're…so beautiful."

_Really?_ She wanted to ask, but stifled the impulse. God, what he'd think of her insecurities if she said that! And then words and thought fled her mind entirely as he kissed her gently. She'd never felt like this before.

_Yes, really Iris, and you're surprised?_ She and Kevin had been the same age, with about the same amount of sexual experience. John…oh, John.

He left a trail of hot, wet kisses down her ribcage, being extraordinarily gentle as he passed over the bruises from Andy's beating. When he reached her waist she was only too glad to lift her hips to let him slide her panties down. She felt his hands leave her for a moment, felt his hands busy elsewhere, and when he settled next to her on the bed he was completely, gloriously nude.

She remembered some of the things Kevin had liked, in bed; and she reached down to him, stroking him carefully. Tentatively. She didn't know if he liked this; she had almost no experience making love to a man, period, and all she really had to go on was what she'd read in the trashy romance novels her friend Melissa lent her occasionally. But John groaned, and, greatly daring, she dipped her head to take him in her mouth.

And almost froze as a memory crashed into her. Another man, dark, heavy, big, grabbing her hair and forcing himself into her mouth; ramming into her throat, choking off her air. She remembered him laughing as he forcibly held her head to his groin, as she fought for air and cried and begged incoherently for him to _please stop, please_…

John must have sensed her hesitation, because the next moment he was sitting upright, pulling her upright with him. "It's all right, Iris. It's okay."

Shame brought a flush to her face. "I'm sorry…I don't…I don't know…" She was on the knife-edge of tears. She hadn't remembered that until just now, and God, what would he think of her if she told him what had happened that night? How she'd been so stupid as to just blindly drink whatever Kevin gave her, trusting him completely, how she'd known that he wasn't the boy she'd grown up with and fallen in love with but had still trusted him blindly?

"It's all right, Iris. Really." He hugged her tightly. "It's all right. Lie back and just enjoy this." For just a fraction of a second, she almost pushed him away and reached for her clothes; but he was laying her gently on her back against the pillows even as she was trying to make up her mind what to do. "Just lie back, Iris." Numbly, she lay back. _It can't possibly be as bad as as…that night_.

But as he touched her again, large, gentle hands sliding over her skin, different sensations awoke. She nearly gasped at the electric thrill that coursed through her when he touched her. "John!"

"Like that?" she could sense his amusement, but it wasn't condescending, it was more…masculine pleasure. He was enjoying what he was doing to her body.

"Ye…ess," she hissed, gasping for breath though the entirely new, entirely different sensations that swamped her body. "I've never…oh God, John…" She couldn't even form coherent words.

"Don't think. Stop thinking and analyzing. Just feel." She obeyed, stopped thinking about anything except what he was doing to her...

* * *

She was still dazed when he finished, switched on her bedside table lamp, and looked down at her flushed, sweaty body. "Liked that, didn't we?" he said with a smirk of pure masculine amusement as he looked down at her.

"Yes," she smiled as she looked up at him. "I've never…this is the first time I've ever…" she couldn't finish.

He seemed to sense what she meant, and he smiled gently. "I loved it too. Every minute of it."

She was suddenly tired, and welcomed the feel of his body snuggled up against her back as he lay beside her. His hand gently stroking her hair was what finally lulled her to a blissfully exhausted sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

John's Monday morning greeting to her was practically a ritual between them now. The other officers barely acknowledged it anymore, though she was starting to get a few quick, hurried 'good morning' greetings from other officers now that John had apparently broken the ice.

So she missed his smile and greeting that Monday when she walked in; as she got on the elevator, she sent him a text message. _Missed you this morning._

When she didn't get an answer back immediately, she started to worry a little. Had something happened to him? She hadn't heard from him all weekend, although she did know he and his partner were working on an old cold case, and it wasn't unusual for cops to put extra effort into solving those old cases. So she put it aside for the moment and concentrated on the minutia of her day.

Not that there wasn't plenty of it. She was in the middle of grading the psych exams of the new NYPD applicants, and also on top of that was her apprehension about the findings of the IAB panel regarding Andy Bowers' continued employment with the NYPD. She was strongly against it; but then, she had been on the receiving end of his fists and his temper, and she could hardly call herself unbiased in her opinions. At the same time, though, she knew that Simon Carter was most likely still part of the decision-making process, and she had little doubt which way his recommendation would go.

It was, therefore, a relief when she opened her email right before lunch to send the grades for the new crop of recruits to the Academy's entrance panel and saw an email from IAB there. She clicked on it with a mix of apprehension and relief; relief, because she would finally get to know what their decision was—and apprehension, because if they chose to give Andy Bowers his badge back, she was seriously considering transferring to Manhattan North, or one of the other boroughs.

But the first few words made her sigh with relief.

_Dear Dr. Campbell: After much deliberation it has been decided to terminate Detective Andy Bowers' association with the NYPD. Other voices spoke in favor of continuing his employment, albeit in reduced capacity, and Mr. Bowers himself offered to attend voluntary counseling. But after a brief assessment session with Dr. Doug Trujillo, Dr. Trujillo's findings concurred with yours and based on your combined professional opinions, Mr. Bowers was deemed too much of a liability._

_However, in the process of making this decision some allegations were made concerning your conduct in session with your patients. Although your fellow psychotherapist Dr. Trujillo vehemently disavowed any knowledge of any unethical actions on your part, still we are compelled to investigate any and all allegations of misconduct. We are therefore sending confidentiality waivers to some of your patients, both past and present, and your signature will be mandatory on any patient-signed waivers we may receive. We will stress that signing the waiver is not mandatory for them, of course, but it will help to determine if there is a basis for these allegations._

Iris wanted to scream. Shout. Throw something. To hell with IAB's words, the only place those so-called 'allegations' could have come from was from Simon Carter. What the hell had she done for him to hate her so much? She'd never even met him!

But she was also worried. Not about her patients, current or past. She'd never been anything but completely professional in sessions. Even with John. She wasn't worried about herself; as Dad had pointed out to her, even if she lost her job here, there were other things she could do. She'd land on her feet, as Dad said she would.

She was worried about what discovery might mean for John.

But he still hadn't answered her text message from that morning; she paused, undecided. Should she make a trip to the squadroom, see if she could find him? Maybe he'd simply lost or misplaced or damaged his phone, and hadn't gotten her texts. By now, the other officers in the precinct had gotten used to seeing John say hello to her in the lobby, walk her to the elevator, talk to her over the coffeemaker in the squadroom, or the water cooler, and no one would remark on her presence there—or think it odd if she asked his partner where he was.

And then there was a cautious knock on her open door. She looked up—into a round face surmounted by a shock of slightly unkempt curly hair. "Detective Fusco?" she rose from her chair, concerned at seeing him without John. "Is…" _Is something wrong with John,_ she almost said, and realized how that would sound. "Is there something I can do for you?"

He looked at her narrowly, then turned and closed her office door behind him, then strode across the room to where she stood by her desk. "Look, I…I know you and John got a thing going." He saw her look, misinterpreted it. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. It's a lot easier dealing with him when he has someone else on his mind. I just wanted to tell you he's been in the hospital the last couple of days, so if you've tried to call him, that's why he didn't answer. I just didn't want you to worry."

So John's partner knew about the two of them. She would worry about that later; right now she was focused on something else entirely. "John's in the hospital? What happened? Is he all right?"

Fusco grinned. "Yeah, he's fine. Buggin' the docs so much they're letting him out a coupla days earlier than they planned to, sending him home to recuperate where he won't make anyone miserable except himself." The smile softened. "We been workin' a cold case. He got a bug in his ear and went harin' off upstate to chase a lead, and ended up runnin' into the murderer up there. He killed the guy, but almost lost his life in the process—got shot, car wouldn't start, spent eight hours up there, nearly died of hypothermia, shock, blood loss."

Iris's heart settled like a brick in her stomach. "But…he's okay."

"Yeah, he's fine. Fine enough to bug the doctors so they'd let him out early. He's going home this afternoon. I figured you might want to know—drop in on him tonight." He lowered his voice, stepped closer to Iris. "I asked him if he wanted to talk to you. He said no, not until he got better. That's when I figured you'd be the best medicine for him.

"I've seen like this often enough—when he gets hurt he shuts everyone and everything out. It's not right. It's not healthy. He almost lost his life this time because he shut everyone out—shut me out. Didn't tell anyone where he was going. If I hadn't found the cold case files on his desk and figured out where he'd gone, then followed him, he would have died…he was real close to it by the time EMTs got to him."

Iris knew where he lived—she had both his files on his desk for several months, and had practically memorized every scrap of information from not just the file that would have been visible to other cops, but the private internal 'sensitive' files that no one but the Chief of Detectives and the departmental psych had access to. Those internal files were where Iris had found out about his past military career, had helped her piece together what had led to him becoming the man he was now.

"I'll drop in on him, see how he's doing," she said. "Um…thanks, Lionel."

"No, Dr. Campbell, thank you. He's easier to deal with now he doesn't have only me to obsess over all the time," but the smile on Fusco's face belied his words as he started back across her office. "Oh…and," he turned to her. "Don't worry about the gossip in the department. I'm certainly not telling anyone you and John got…a thing…going. What he does on his own time is his business."

"Gossip?" The brick turned into lead.

"It's no secret someone—we both know who—in IAB thinks you've been…acting unethically…in sessions with your patients." He saw her look, misread it. "I wouldn't worry much. I've heard a few of the guys talking, they're furious Simon Carter would even think that about you. Tom Becker's been pretty vocal about how much you've helped him and how you never overstepped your bounds as a therapist." He smiled. "And I know you're officially not John's therapist anymore, he grumps about that Doug guy you shuffled him off to. So what you—and John—do on your own time is none of my business. I don't know and I don't wanna know."

Iris had to smile—she could easily see how John would have been reluctant to open up to Doug. "Thanks, Lionel."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

The clock seemed to slow the closer it got to five PM. She had her laptop bag and purse packed and ready to go by four forty-five, and was actually pacing around her office doing some unnecessary dusting and cleaning until her watch ticked off that last second and she could go. She headed for her Rebel in the garage, conscious of the fact that the space next to her car, one usually occupied by the long purple GTO, was empty. She swore at the traffic, which was seemed like it was moving along at slower-than-a-snail's pace today, until she got to the apartment complex where John lived.

Her first knock on John's door produced no response. Neither did her second. Finally, exasperated, she called through the door, "John, if you don't answer this door, I'll call the EMTs and have you taken back to the hospital again for being unresponsive. Do you really want to spend another night getting poked with needles?"

A long pause. Just as she was thinking she maybe should call 911, that maybe he was unresponsive, she heard the sound of a chain lock sliding backwards, and then John looked blearily out at her as he cracked the door open. "Iris, I'm really not in the mood right now."

She stared. "Oh my God, John." She wasn't thinking about anything as she pushed forward, her vision full of the sight of a pale, haggard John Riley, shirtless and wearing only a pair of sweatpants. "You should have stayed in the hospital at least another day."

"Didn't…want to. Didn't…want to get…poked with…more needles." John stepped backward, rather reluctantly, she guessed, but she didn't care. "Who…told you?"

"Lionel." She closed the door of his apartment behind her and dropped her bags as he wavered on his feet, taking a huge step forward to catch him before he fell. "Come on. Let's get you back into bed."

He resisted…barely. "I don't want…you here. Don't want you…to see me like this. Gonna..have a talk…with Lionel."

Anger warred with her concern for him; the anger won, just barely. "John Riley, you have got to stop shutting everyone out. Stop thinking of yourself as a lone wolf licking his wounds alone. You are not alone in this world, you do have friends, and we are not going to put up with it—I refuse to put up with this nonsense from you." She grabbed one of his arms, slung it over her shoulder, started walking toward the short hallway that led to the single small bedroom. "Come on. You're going back to bed and I'm fixing you something to eat."

"No…you're leaving."

"John. Shut up." And he actually shut up, staring at her in surprise—which gave her the opportunity to walk him the rest of the way down the hall and into the bedroom. Small, spartan, a single queen-size bed. The covers were rumpled, and she felt a momentary flash of guilt. He'd been sleeping when she knocked on the door, then.

She let what was left of him fall onto the bed, he barely managing to stay upright in a sitting position. "Iris…go away."

"Not happening." She ignored him completely as she straightened the bed, fluffed the pillows. "If you're not going to have the sense enough to know when you need to stay in the hospital, then you're going to put up with me as your nurse until you're on your feet again." She gently supported his upper body with one arm as she guided him down gently with the other. "Lie down now."

He tried to resist, but he really didn't have much strength left. She lifted his legs onto the bed, then reached for the waistband of the pants.

He did resist. Again, feebly.

She swatted his hand away. "Nothing I haven't seen before, John." Which was true. "Like it or not, you're stuck with me." She tossed the sweats into a laundry hamper overflowing with clothes in one corner of the room, then pulled the blankets up and tucked them around him. "Look. If you really don't want me here, I can drive you back to the hospital and you can deal with the doctors and nurses there." He made a face. "That's what I thought. You are not capable of taking care of yourself right now, and since you're too stubborn to stay in the hospital, you're stuck with me." He looked as if he was going to protest, for a moment; and then he relaxed in bed with a defeated look, and she knew she'd won.

She went through the bottles of prescriptions on the night table, did some quick figuring. "You're not good about taking meds, are you. Or you wouldn't look like this." Without waiting for his reply, she left the bedroom, headed for the kitchen. Found an ancient plain red coffee mug with a cracked handle in one of the nearly-empty cupboards, rinsed it and ran some water into it, then returned to the bedroom. "Sit up."

He glared at her.

"John. I'm not fooling around. Sit up. You have to take these." She remembered her brothers protesting being out to bed when they were sick; John was behaving the exact same way. "All right. You want to do it the hard way, we'll do it the hard way." He was heavier than he looked, but she had experience with her brothers, and with her father; he was no match for her as she wrestled him upright, dropped four pills of different colors and sizes into his hand, and then held up the cup of water. "Now swallow those down. Or do I have to rub your throat to make you swallow like I do the puppies at the shelter?"

He gave her a look that needed no explanation; she just looked back at him steadily, holding the cup. Finally he sighed exaggeratedly and took the cup from her, swallowing the pills down with a huge gulp of water before handing the mug back to her. "Good. Now lie down. One of those is going to make you a little drowsy, you go ahead and take a nap. You need that more than anything else right now." She stood. "I'm going to go ahead and make you some hot soup, so when you wake up you can get some food into you. Some of those pills will upset your stomach if you don't take them with food."

She paused in the middle of the room as something occurred to her, and she came back to the bed. "John, I understand you want privacy. I understand there are things you feel you can't share with me. I promise I won't go looking into your things while you're asleep. I'll wait for you to decide what to share with me, and how much. But you really look bad right now and you need someone with you, and that's going to be me, so deal with it." She started to turn away from the bed, and was arrested by his hand on her arm.

"Iris…thanks…" He sounded drowsy, but she could see genuine gratitude in his eyes.

She smiled as she leaned over to drop a brief, gentle kiss on his forehead. "You're welcome, John. Get some sleep now." His eyes were already closing as she pulled the bedroom door partly closed behind her—not all the way, in case he needed something; she wanted to be able to look in on him occasionally.

Then back to the kitchen to examine the contents of his refrigerator and cupboards, see what she could cobble together for him. She knew he was a bachelor, and the apartment was too small to have friends over much, but she still found herself shaking her head over the cabinets. Beer. Canned beans, boxed pasta, boxed dinners, other things that he could open and heat quickly, eat quickly; nothing that would take a while to cook. Not much by way of spices.

But in the refrigerator she found a chunk of steak. Not a really good cut, but it was better than nothing. A quick rummage through the cabinets and she found a dusty pot with a cracked glass lid that would still work for soup; she diced the beef into small, bite-sized pieces, added water for broth, and what she could find in the spice cabinet that would work for a soup; added a couple cups of rice from an ancient but still-intact bag in the cupboard, then added canned vegetables; corn and beans, then stood back and sighed. It would have to do for now—it was better than him just opening a can of beans, which she suspected he would have done on his own—but when he woke up she was going to take a quick walk to the corner bodega and pick up some things for a good pot roast. There was an ancient slow cooker sitting dust-covered and forgotten to one side of the counter; with some potatoes, onions, carrots, and a good cut of beef simmering in a thick well-seasoned broth stock, she should be able to tempt his appetite. She didn't cook often; only when her father came to visit, actually; it wasn't really any fun cooking just for herself.

Cooking for John would be…wonderful.

That done, she wiped down the counters, cleaned the dust off the utensils and dishes, made sure the slow-cooker was working, then sat down and made a list of the things she wanted to get for his cupboards and refrigerator. Then she grabbed a beer out of the fridge, considering it for a moment. She rarely drank, and since the night of the accident, she'd never, ever drunk anything alcoholic in front of another man, but…well, John was not a threat. Even if he weren't sick and asleep, he was not a threat. He would never do anything like that to her, or anyone else; she knew that as surely as she knew her own name.

She sipped it casually as she kicked off her shoes by the front door and retrieved her bags and laptop. She usually wore a t-shirt or tank top under her blouses; today was no exception, and she carefully folded her blouse and left it sitting on the back of the battered, ancient, but comfortable-looking couch in the corner of his apartment that served as his living room. The kitchen table was small, and cluttered with bits of junk mail, bills, and other minutia. She bundled them carefully off to one side, propping them up in a dusty, empty napkin holder, resisting the urge to glance through them; she'd promised him she wouldn't pry. Then she plugged in her laptop and settled down to do some paperwork.

An hour later she finished, got up, stretched the kinks out of her back, then wandered down the hall to check on her patient. He was asleep when she pushed open the door to his room, snoring; she smiled as she padded across the room to his bedside. He woke, suddenly, as she reached him; that military training, she assumed, waking him when he felt someone coming near who could possibly be hostile. But his bleary eyes focused on her and knew her almost immediately, even in the dark; she gently placed a hand on his forehead to check and see if he was running a fever, or if he was cold; no, he was fine; and then she tugged the blankets up a bit further, tucking them around his chest. "Go back to sleep, John, I just wanted to make sure you were okay." His eyes closed immediately as he surrendered back to sleep; she wasn't sure he was still awake as she leaned over him and dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead. Then, secure in the knowledge that he was fine and all he needed was sleep, she retreated from his bedroom, closed the door behind her, and retreated to the kitchen. She'd purchased a new ebook on her laptop a few months back but hadn't yet had a chance to read it; now was a good time to catch up on her reading…


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

She felt a light touch on her arm. For just a moment she almost told Dad to let her sleep a few more minutes, but she had kinks in her back and her neck hurt from sleeping in what felt like a hard chair, so she opened her eyes. As soon as she saw her dark laptop screen in front of her she remembered where she was, and sat up, blinking sleepily into John Riley's amused blue eyes.

"The couch would have been more comfortable," he told her, smiling. "Or you could have gone home."

"And left you alone? No. You needed someone with you." She stretched the kinks out of her back, brushed a few locks of her unruly red curls out of her face, then stood. "How do you feel?"

For answer, he took her in his arms, drew her gently to him, and kissed her until they were both breathless. "Does that answer your question?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes it does." And then she looked past him and saw the clock on the microwave. "Oh no! I have to get to work!" Her first appointment was at nine, and it was already almost eight. It would take almost thirty-five minutes to get to the Oh-Eight from here, with morning traffic in New York the way it was. "Rats. I don't have time to go home and change." She grabbed her blouse off the back of John's couch, relieved that she'd left it neatly folded the night before. Fortunately her dark pencil skirt was of heavy twill and didn't wrinkle easily.

"Sorry…" John was unplugging her laptop, closing it and dropping it into her bag as she was buttoning her blouse.

"Stop, John." Damn the man, he even apologized for things that weren't his fault. "I chose to come over last night. I chose to stay the night. Don't apologize for my decisions." She raked her fingers through her hair. "I don't have time to wash and straighten my hair."

"I never understood why you do that." John ran his fingers through her curls, sending a delicious tingle down her spine. "I love your hair the way it is. You shouldn't change it."

"I have to, John. My professional persona requires that I be a colorless non-entity in the counseling room, so I can see who my patients really are instead of seeing how they reflect off me. I wouldn't have been able to see the real you if you'd seen, and responded to, the real me. I'm a different person underneath, just like you're not really Detective John Riley." She grabbed her bag and purse, stuffing her feet into her heels. "I made some beef soup last night, or what passes for beef soup from what I cobbled together with the contents of your refrigerator and cabinets. I'm surprised you aren't sick more, you don't eat right. Have some of that soup, go back to bed. Don't forget to take your meds today, either; I know how many were in those bottles last night and I'll know if you skipped any!" A fib, but he hopefully wouldn't know that. "When I get back this evening I'll bring some more groceries, and by then you should be ready for more solid food." She gave him a quick kiss and flew out the door, not giving him a chance to say anything.

The day went by much too slowly, the only memorable part of it being when one of her patients actually signed the IAB confidentiality waiver—Tom Becker. She felt apprehension for a moment, wondering what he was going to say, then she remembered Lionel's words; _Tom's been very vocal in insisting you've helped him and you've never overstepped your boundaries._ So she signed it, though not without a few misgivings.

But she pushed those aside when she left work. At exactly five o'clock she was turning the key to lock her office door; by five-thirty she was at a little streetside grocery not that far from the precinct, when she took out the list she'd made the night before of things she wanted to get for John's cabinets and refrigerator, grabbed a cart, and started shopping. As she stood in line and waited for the cashier to ring up the items she'd bought, she realized that a lot of these things were basic items that practically everyone had in their kitchens; toaster, etc. John's kitchen had a coffeemaker, a microwave, and the ancient, dusty slow cooker, and nothing else. As if he'd just moved in and hadn't yet had a chance to get anything. And come to think of it, those things he did have looked like things that perhaps a former tenant had left in the apartment, and not something that he would have picked out for himself. Granted, if he'd been part of a federally-run Narcotics sting operation for five years, he might have had to change apartments when he was transferred to Manhattan South Homicide, and being a homicide detective certainly didn't leave you with a lot of time for yourself—in between whatever else John had going. She knew he had something else he did, she just didn't know what; and it involved that friend Harold John talked about. The night of the gala, it had become evident to her about ten minutes into the dinner that he was there for another reason entirely, and she just happened to have been able to get him in to where he needed to be, for whatever reasons those were. And Lionel was mixed up in it too. He'd used her, but strangely, she hadn't minded as much as she thought she should have.

Yet another puzzle piece in the mystery that was John Riley.

But she'd promised him she wouldn't pry, and she would keep that promise. Although she would have liked to know what he was doing and who he really was, she knew enough about his character to know that he would never harm an innocent, tried hard to save lives where he could, and for her, that was enough. She knew he didn't trust her with all of this secrets yet, but if she hung in there and accepted him, accepted whatever he could give her whenever he could give it to her, maybe, eventually, she would know the truth about him. In the meantime, she was privileged to know a very special, unique man.

She stopped off at her apartment to make sure Zeya had food and water; the cat seemed to enjoy her solitude and barely blinked when Iris ransacked her dresser for a set of casual clothes, a clean set of good work clothes and an extra pair of shoes, packed all of that in an overnight case with her hairbrush and toiletries, then on an impulse she reached under her bed and grabbed the box that held the glass chess set she had bought for when her Dad came over and he wanted a game. She didn't know if John played or not, but the way he thought, she figured he probably did.

She knocked on his door half an hour later; when it opened, she was surprised to see not John, but a shorter man with glasses and a distinct stiffness in his spine. "Hello," she said brightly. "You must be Harold." She put down the bag she was holding and held out her hand.

He didn't take it. "And you are?"

Well, John had said he was good at keeping secrets. She just hadn't realized she was going to be a secret from John's friends, too. John had never once mentioned Harold was a cop, and Iris, looking at him now, rather doubted he had an active lifestyle. "I'm Iris." She nudged the bag on the floor of the hallway into the apartment with her toe, then put down the other armful of bags she was holding and her overnight case, then turned to grab the rest of the grocery bags.

"You're staying overnight?" Harold had noticed her overnight case, then. And she got a distinct feeling he knew who she was, and the tone of his voice said he entirely disapproved of her.

And that pissed her off. He didn't even know her. Except maybe as 'the shrink' from earlier in the year, when John had surely complained about being forced into mandatory counseling sessions with her.

She got the rest of the bags into the apartment, then stood and faced Harold squarely. "Yes, I'm staying overnight. If John's going to be so pigheaded that he refuses to stay in the hospital even when it's clearly the best thing for him, and if his friends aren't going to insist that he do the right thing for himself, then he's going to have to deal with me staying overnight."

"I told you you didn't have to." And now she saw John leaning against the counter in the kitchen.

She grabbed bags and started bringing them the rest of the way into the kitchen. "Yes. You did. Unlike other people in your life, John, I'm not afraid of you. I respect you but I am not afraid of you. You can tell me to go to hell, and I'll still be here. Because you're too much by yourself, and everybody around you seems to be happy with the status quo." She carefully didn't mention any names, didn't even make eye contact with Harold as she started unpacking grocery bags, but she knew he knew she was referring to him. "Well, I'm not. Just because you're used to being isolated and invisible doesn't mean you really like it—or should ever get used to feeling like that." She met John's eyes with a challenging look in her own; after a moment, he dropped his eyes and she knew she'd gotten him. "I'm going to do a quick couple of steaks, Harold, would you like to stay for dinner?" She'd bought enough to feed one more person if she had to.

"No, that's quite all right, Dr. Campbell, I'll leave you with your patient." Apparently what she'd said needled Harold; he left quickly, shutting the door behind him.

In the kitchen, John chuckled quietly. "I think he didn't quite know how to react with you."

"He's part of the reason you are the way you are." She saw the hint of anger in his eyes, and hurried to explain herself. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. John, in the brief time I've known you, I've seen two sides to you. There's the quiet side of you that you hide from everyone because you try so hard to be what everyone around you wants you to be; and there's the hard angry side of you that you put up to hide who you really are from everyone. You rarely ever mention your friends, but what you _have_ said leads me to believe that's the front Harold sees; the strong, hard capable Superman. Wonderboy, as Lionel calls you." She'd laughed to herself the first time she'd heard Lionel call him that. "You even show that to Lionel. And although they all know that's not really who you are, inside, they let you keep that façade, let you hang onto those illusions." She leaned in close. "I'm not willing to let you keep that illusion. Not around me. I like it, because I like you; but I want to see all of you, not just the public front you show everyone. I accept you have secrets. I accept there are some things you don't want to tell me. But if I stick around, show you that you don't need that front with me, maybe, someday, you'll let me in." He opened his mouth to say something, and silenced him with a kiss.

Long and sweet, and when they parted and she looked into those blue eyes, she saw John there, not the hard Superman she'd seen when Harold had been there. "You said…you weren't afraid of me."

"No. I'm not." She had no need to fear him. She'd seen the worst side of man's inhumanity, seen the worst side of someone she'd loved; and she knew John didn't have that dark inhuman side to him. Hard and angry, yes. Intense. Maybe scary-intense. But he didn't have that inhumane side to him; never would. "And if you don't let me go, we'll never get to dinner."

"I could have you for dinner." There was smoky desire in his eyes.

She slipped out of his reach. "You are not recovered enough for that. I refuse to take advantage of a sick man." She looked into the pot on the stove. "I see you had the soup today." There was barely anything left in the pot. Good. "Take your meds?"

"Yes, Ma'am," John said with mock meekness; but when she looked up, there was a twinkle in his eyes. Good, his sense of humor was back.

"Good. Let me take care of the groceries, and we'll have dinner." She opened the fridge and started unpacking bags.

He stared. "You bought a lot of stuff, Iris."

She put her hands on her hips. "You almost died, John. That's not something you shake off in a couple hours, or a couple days. Whatever it is that you do with Harold is running you ragged—don't think I haven't seen you looking so tired in our morning sessions that you could barely stay awake. Since I can't stop you, the least I can do is make sure you have enough of the right food to keep you going. Protein, iron—particularly since you nearly died of blood loss—a variety of other foods with vitamins you need." She took a grocery bag out of his hands. "Go sit down and rest. I'll put the groceries away and do the cooking."

He seemed about to argue; she put her hands on her hips and gave him _that look_. He closed his mouth with surprising meekness and headed for the living room as she continued putting groceries away, then started unwrapping what she needed to make a couple of steaks.

"How did you know I play chess?" His query made her turn. "You follow me to the Baxter Street park one day?"

"I didn't know you play chess. I took a guess based on how I know your mind works." She smiled at him. "I play chess too—Dad taught me, and then later I actually took a course in grad school on diagnostic chess." He looked puzzled. "You can tell a lot about what a person is like, how they think, by playing a chess game with them." She leaned over to put the now-marinated steaks on their foil tray in the oven. "If you like, go ahead and set up the board while I do the vegetables."

She set the frozen corn on to steam, and when she turned back around, he had produced a small wooden box from—somewhere, she didn't know where—and was setting up some elegantly carved wooden pieces. She caught her breath as she came over to the board, picked up one intricately-detailed wooden horse—a knight—in a light wood. "John, these are beautiful."

"There was an older gentleman I used to play chess with on Saturday mornings in the Baxter Street park—there's a hospice right next to the park. They have checkerboard patterns inlaid on the park tables, and players bring their own pieces. Jerry and I played whenever I had time, and we'd trade war stories." He had the dark Queen in his hand, and he seemed to be talking to it, not as much to her. "One morning I came to the park and there was another man there waiting for me. Willie. Jerry had died of his cancer the night before—but he left a note in his journal asking Tom to give me his chess pieces."

"So these are his."

"Yes. He carved each piece himself over the course of his lifetime, most of them in trenches during World War I and II. The white pieces are pine and maple with a honey maple stain, the dark ones are oak and mahogany with a walnut stain. I think about him every time I play with them."

Another piece in the puzzle that was John. Iris carefully set the delicate white knight back on the board. "You can have the first move."

"Ladies first." He was equally adamant.

* * *

The steaks were past medium rare and on their way to 'well done' by the time she remembered they were in the oven. She frowned as she took the tray out of the oven, but damn, the man was fun to watch! She could almost see wheels in his head turning as he thought; each piece was moved with deliberate care, with a thought to all possible moves for several steps ahead. He won, of course; she was no match for a military strategist like him…but just watching him play was fascinating.

He broached the subject over dinner. "So what's the diagnosis, Doc?" he asked teasingly.

"There were a lot of moves you could have taken to end the game quickly, but you didn't, especially not when it would have put your queen in danger. Yet, the one time I made an unexpected move that you hadn't anticipated and nearly won, you sacrificed one of your knights to keep me from winning. You don't like to lose."

"No, I don't." He ate another bite of steak. "But I also don't like sacrificing people I love to win."

"So you sacrifice yourself. You moved your knights all over the board, more often than you moved other pieces." She thought about that. "So you see yourself as the knight. Moving in to save others."

One corner of his lips quirked upwards in a smile. "We did have a talk once about my 'hero complex', as you called it."

"Yes. And I'm even more firmly convinced that you do have a hero complex. Might go to your head, except that you also have a serious guilt complex too. You carry so much around with you, John, that when something goes wrong you automatically feel like it's your fault, that you have to apologize for it. It's also part of that survivor's guilt you carry around."

He stared at his empty plate without seeing it. "So many people I've cared about have died. And I'm still here. I don't believe I'm that lucky—I don't believe in luck—but they say only the good die young, so…"

She dropped her fork and knife on the plate with a clatter, startling him out of whatever reverie he'd been in. "Stop it, John. Don't be unnecessary fatalistic. Sometimes things just happen, and you can't do anything about them…and sometimes things happen because they're meant to." She came around the table, reached for his empty plate. "Lionel went out to find you at that cabin upstate in the Catskills. If he hadn't you would have died. I believe that was meant to happen—and don't you forget to thank him for saving your life when you get back to work, too. Don't take your friends for granted, you never know when…" she trailed off; the sudden haunted look in John's eyes reminded her that he'd lost too many friends. And the wistful look on his face told her that there had been too many things left unsaid between him and those lost friends that would now never be spoken. "And sometimes you just get lucky. Like me, for instance. I'm the luckiest woman in Manhattan."

"Really?" he grabbed his plate, stood up, and held the plate over his head, out of her reach. "And why would you consider yourself lucky?"

"Because I have you." She tried to duck around him, reach up for the plate; he ducked at the same time, and somehow their lips met…and just as she started to get lost in the kiss, she felt him slip her plate out of her hand. "John! That's not fair, distracting me like that!"

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made her smile. "I'm certainly recovered enough to wash a couple of plates, Iris. You've done the hard work of cooking, now let me clean up. Go get changed and make yourself comfortable. We can put on a movie, or if you like rock music, there's a concert on TV." And he named one of her favorite bands.

"80's rock?" She giggled. "I never figured you for the type. But I love them too, so yes, we can watch the concert."

Thirty minutes later, snuggled up in bed next to John watching the concert, Iris changed her mind. She wasn't the luckiest woman in Manhattan; she was the luckiest woman in the world.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

He knew where they were going as soon as she opened the door. "Good thing I wore clothes that can get dirty," he smiled as she stepped back and let him walk into her apartment.

She smiled, but it didn't touch her eyes. "The animal cruelty hearing for Snowy's case was yesterday. I have to go to the shelter today and find out what the case disposition was, and start trying to find her a home. If the court decided to take her away from her owner and place her for adoption, then I'm going to start taking visitors past her kennel and see if any of them 'click' with her. It's going to take a while to find her a home with people who can care for her needs, so we have to get started as soon as we know she's available."

They took John's GTO this time; the second time they'd gone out to the shelter they'd taken his car, and Iris had fallen in love with the big car instantly. It was a smooth ride, and the interior was spacious; it felt roomier inside than it looked outside. Her white Rebel with its blue and red stripes wasn't all that much smaller than the GTO, of course, but the bench seats in the back were narrower and somehow the impression was of less space. "You know, John, this would be great to ride out to Coney Island in."

"Coney Island?"

She smiled. "Yeah. Used to love going out there with…with Kevin." It still hurt. "Have you ever been there?"

"Um…no."

"Oh then we have to go at some point, John. You need to relax and be able to do something normal."

"Iris, I'm not—you're not getting me on a roller coaster."

The mental picture of John, straight-laced, intense John, on a roller coaster ride, made her laugh. "Yeah, I can't see you on one. But there are other things to do, John. Walk around. See things. Play a few games. One of the things I loved most when…I used to go…was the bumper cars. And there's always the carousel and the haunted house rides."

He looked meditative. "Bumper cars-I haven't been on one of those since I was a child. There was a small-town carnival held in my hometown every summer, sponsored by the firemen and police. I remember I liked the bumper cars."

"Then at some point we have to go." There was a wistfulness in his voice that made up her mind for her. He sounded like the thought of bumper cars reminded him of when he was younger, happier, more innocent. She wanted to remind him of those times; he had too many dark memories.

They parked at the shelter, and they both got out. She was eager to get in and start the day; and, from the way John's long strides ate up the sidewalk, she knew he felt the same. In the last couple of months they'd taken to going to the shelter at least once a week; and Iris knew from looking at the shelter's sign-in sheets that John had come here a few times without her. And of course, gossip from the other (female) volunteers told her that a very handsome single man had recently joined the cadre of shelter volunteers. The last time they'd come together, Snow had apparently smelled or sensed them coming and had been on her feet at the kennel gate, watching them approach, hopping as enthusiastically as she could on those misshapen legs when she saw them. Other volunteers had noticed her behavior change too, and they were also spending a little time working with her. And she was responding, slowly but surely, to their attention and care.

"Good morning, Frank," Iris said cheerily as she grabbed for the pen to sign in on the volunteer sheet. "Came to see Snowy. How did the case disposition go?"

The moment Frank looked at her she knew it wasn't good news. Beside her, she felt John tense. "Snow's been given back to her owner."

"What?" She felt her jaw drop. "How? He's got a drug conviction, and you can see the long-term kenneling issue that led to the abuse allegations!"

Frank sighed helplessly. "He showed up at the hearing with his girlfriend. She backed up his claim that he wasn't the one responsible for her condition, that he'd bought Snow –Coke—as a puppy to teach his nephew how to be responsible. And the neighbors who testified all said that the only time they ever saw the dog was with the nephew, and therefore since the nephew was Coke's owner, it's the nephew's fault for the dog abuse. They also said that since the nephew has just recently gone off to the military, the cause for that is gone, and the guy said he would take proper care of Coke from now on."

"I don't believe that for a moment." Iris felt her face flushing with anger.

"None of us do, Iris, but the court looked at the dog license records and found that Coke's dog license actually was registered to the guy's nephew when she was licensed for New York City four years ago. And the Court also knows that we don't really have a good track record for adopting out special needs pets. The vet testified that if Coke remained in our care after the hearing, she likely would be euthanized so the court placed her back with her owner." He spread his hands helplessly. "No one who's worked with her agrees, but that was the court's decision."

"No!" Tears spilled out of Iris's eyes, and she had to curl her fists to keep from shaking. "No, I…it…they can't…"

"Iris, if it makes any difference, the Animal Enforcement Officers who took Coke away from her owner before promised us they'd keep an eye on the family, drive by the neighborhood at random, and if they didn't see Coke going out for regular walks and being allowed to roam about in the yard, they'd stop in and check on her and take her away again if necessary. I'm sorry, I know that's not what you were hoping for—it's not what any of us were hoping for—but you know this was a possibility. It's always a possibility every time we have a case like this."

Iris turned blindly and fled the office. She knew the layout of the shelter like the back of her hand; so it didn't require conscious thought before she was back outside. She ignored John's car in favor of running, pouring out her frustration and anguish in the sheer physical action.

There was a small gym not far from the shelter; she'd bought a membership there soon after she'd started volunteering, knowing she'd need to have a place to burn off steam when crap like this happened. She went there now, her feet taking her there automatically; blind and deaf to whatever else might be going on, whoever else might be there, she grabbed a set of gloves and started punching one of the bags.

Some time later—she didn't know how much later—a pair of hands grabbed the bag, held it. She blinked sweat and tears out of her eyes, looked up—and saw John there. There was sorrow, and a gentle understanding, in his eyes; wordlessly, she went back to punching the bag as he held it for her.

He let it go on for a few more minutes, then caught her wrist. "Iris. Iris, stop. You're going too fast, you're going to be sore in the morning."

"No worse than Snow will be." She refused to say 'Coke'.

"I understand you're angry. But this isn't going to do anything except hurt yourself." He caught her arm as she started to punch the bag again. "Come on."

He drew her to the mat, and she noted with astonishment that he'd already grabbed a pair of gloves. "Hit me."

She stared at him. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No. Hit me."

She folded her arms. "Absolutely not."

He broke into movement, advancing toward her, then throwing a punch. She ducked it easily. "Stop it, John."

He refused, kept coming.

"John. I said stop it, damn it. I'm not going to fight you."

He threw another punch. She ducked under his swing, came up, threw a right cross. It missed his chin by inches as he backed away…and then he advanced again.

Anger rose. Damn it, the man was too damn thickheaded to listen to her when she said to leave her alone. She was damn well going to make him regret it. He probably thought she couldn't hurt him, he with his military skills. All he'd seen was her getting the shit beaten out of her on the floor of the parking garage by Andy Bowers. Well, time to show him she could take care of herself.

She pressed forward with a flurry of kicks and punches. Although she was angry, she could hear Dad's voice in the back of her head telling her to act, not react. '_Lock it down, don't let your anger rule you!_' So she refused to let her anger at John for dragging her into this stupid fight, or her seething resentment at the system that had placed Snow back with her owner, to affect what she did.

"When you swing, swing lower if you're not as tall as your assailant. Keep your elbow tucked down, a little closer to your body, so your attacker can't land a punch to your side." She was so surprised that she actually faltered a moment, then her body responded to the authoritative tone and she followed the instructions, tucking her elbow downward and closer to her body. John swung in, using the same overhand swing Andy had used. This time, instead of connecting with her side, it deflected off her upper arm. Now she brought her elbow up in a move Dad had taught her, swung it up and out, catching the inside of John's wrist on his hand's downward swing. As her elbow came down, she swung with her other glove, and he brought his other forearm up just in time to protect his chin from her punch. It was the same move that had connected with Andy Bowers' chin in the garage that night.

"Good. Almost got a hit on me that time. Try it again, and I'll block that move you make with your elbow, then show you how to counter the block."

Over the next hour she lost all of her anger in fierce concentration as John taught her self-defense moves. By the end of two hours at the gym, she was breathing hard, her legs shaking from the extra activity, and he called a halt to their exercise. "Enough for one day. I think I worked out all of your anger."

"You planned this, you son of a bitch," she said, but there was no rancor in her voice.

He grinned at her as he toweled the sweat off his face. "I've had a lot of people say that to me. Somehow, I don't mind it when you say it."

She sighed. "I'm sorry, John. I was pissed off about the court's decision and I didn't want to take it out on you."

"And I didn't want you to take it out on yourself. You taught me not to internalize so much—it was my turn to remind you of your own lesson." He leaned over, gently brushed his lips over her forehead. "Let's get you home before you fall asleep standing up."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Silence.

Not the usual sibilant hum of noise around her as people went on with their business while ignoring her. This time, there was silence. She strode in with her head high, after a quick casual glance around to see if John was there—but he wasn't. There was just the thunderous, deafening silence around her, and stares. Some of them were open; some of them were a quick glance followed by hastily averted eyes.

She was shaken as she pressed the elevator button. She had no idea what was going on; what was different about this Monday, of all Mondays? Her hair was straightened, and neat—she'd resisted the temptation to give into John's urgings to her to stop straightening her hair. Her suit was carefully pressed, completely professional. She had to resist the urge to grab her mirror out of her purse and check to see if she'd missed anything; she knew she hadn't. And there was something…hostile in those stares.

Her heart sank into her stomach as she got off the elevator and saw, in the chair outside her office, Simon Carter sitting there. As if her day could get any worse…what the hell could he want? She squared her shoulders, kept her voice politely professional as she walked up to him, taking out her office key. "Good morning, Agent Carter, what can I do for you?"

"You may hand me your key, Ms. Campbell."

Her fist tightened instinctively on the key. "It's _Dr_. Campbell, Agent Carter."

"Not for much longer. Given the recent…allegations…regarding your misconduct and abuse of your position, the evidence that has recently been found to highlight your…indiscriminate activities…leaves little doubt that you will continue to be employed by the Department much longer. Or even that you will continue to hold the title of 'Dr'." His voice was oily with triumph as he held out his hand. "Your keys please, Ms. Campbell."

"I don't understand." She was glad her voice didn't shake. "What evidence?"

"Evidence that you have cultivated a less-than-professional relationship with other officers on this force. Evidence that you yourself are engaging in conduct which disgraces the Department, not to mention your profession." Iris was getting more and more confused by the minute. Had they found out about her and John? Surely they couldn't suspend and fire her that summarily…could they?

He dug his phone out of his pocket, tapped it, then held it up. And she felt the blood rush from her face as she saw a video of herself on her knees in front of a man—although his face was out of the picture, the body was undeniably male, because the police uniform pants were unzipped, and she was…

She took an involuntary step back, her hands coming up to cover her gasp of shock. "It…it can't be…how did you…"

"It doesn't matter how I got it. What matters is that I do have it." He stepped closer. "You sit in judgment over other officers, making moral judgments on their private lives which have no bearing on what they do in uniform. And here you are behaving no better. You're a slut, a whore, Ms. Campbell. You're a disgrace to your profession and the Department." He stood back. "And now everyone knows it. This video has made the rounds of the Department this weekend. Practically everyone has seen it. You can't keep it a secret anymore. And the things they've been saying about you…you might as well resign now. There will be a formal inquest tomorrow, during which this will be played for everyone in the hearing room. You could spare yourself the shame and humiliation and just resign now." He leaned in. "Just tell me you're leaving now. Give me your key and walk away. And I won't tell the licensing board how you've abused your patients' trust and…taken advantage of them."

"I…there's a hearing tomorrow?" Somehow through the shocked fog she managed to grasp the sense of those words.

"Yes. And as I said, you can spare yourself the shame of having this played in front of the hearing board if you resign now."

She managed to find a small bit of steel still inside her. "There were…circumstances surrounding that…incident…that I will explain to the hearing board."

"It's not necessary, Dr. Campbell. Once that video is played for the hearing board, you're done. Do you understand? Finished. You'll be fired. Your conduct will be reported to the licensing board and you'll lose your license. You'll never practice again. You have a chance to skip all that. You could resign now, and still have your psych license, be able to open your own practice, work somewhere else."

Some small part of her mind found it odd that an IAB agent was promising not to report misconduct to the psych licensing board, but the greater part of her, dazed and in shock after what she'd seen, simply wanted to get away from the whole unpleasant scene. "I'll attend the hearing tomorrow," she whispered as she dropped her key into Simon Carter's hand. And then she fled.

It wasn't until she was in her car, alone in the parking garage, that her numb shock snapped. And then the tears came, hot, angry tears of grief and betrayal. Who had kept that video, after all these years? It had to have been someone who was there, but…she could barely remember anything about that night, let alone who was there. Someone had to have known, had to have recognized her. Whoever had given the video to Simon Carter had to have been there. And she had no idea who.

There was a tap on her car window. She looked up, eyes streaming…and saw John Riley. Her heart tightened in her chest. _Simon said it made the rounds of the department over the weekend. John. John must have seen it._ And as she looked through tear-blurred eyes through her window, she saw from his face that he knew. She reached blindly for the door mechanism, opened the door, climbed out shakily. "John…John, please…it's not what it looks like, please…"

"It's all right, Iris. It's all right." He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt the strength in his arms as he hugged her, felt the emotion in his kiss as he brushed his lips against her forehead. "It's all right." He stepped back, cupped her chin in his hands, made her look into his eyes. And she saw concern, anguish, sympathy, in those blue depths. "Look, we can't talk here, but I'll be over tonight. Okay? We can talk then."

"I…I…It's not what it looks like, John, you have to believe me…please…" she was babbling, and knew it, but she couldn't bear the thought that he had seen her like that. A slut. A whore, as Simon Carter had called her.

"I know it isn't, Iris. I know what happened that night. It wasn't your fault. You were set up."

Shock froze her for the second time that morning. "I…you know…?"

"Yes. I know. I wish you'd told me, but then, I bet there are things you wish I would tell you." The crack brought a weak, watery smile to her face, and she knew it would be okay. Whatever else the world might think, her Dad was right in this one thing; she would still have John. And at the moment, that was all that mattered. "All right. Come on, go home. Try to relax. I work second shift, eight-to-four, today. I'll come to your place as soon as I get off. And we'll talk."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It was the longest day of Iris's life.

Zeya was plainly confused that Iris was home so soon after having gone through her getting-ready-for-work ritual, but confusion turned to happiness when Iris changed out of her work clothes into a pair of soft knit pants and a t-shirt, lay on the bed, and cuddled the cat. Happiness turned back to confusion when Iris wouldn't stop crying, and when Zeya realized her fur was getting wet, she twitched her tail in irritation and stalked off.

Iris cried herself into an exhausted nap, woke up around three that afternoon. John would be getting off at four, she remembered, and her stomach got jumpy all over again. She finally made herself a cup of herbal tea to try and settle her stomach, managed to choke down a couple pieces of dry toast, but she was too upset to eat anything. When the doorbell rang at four-forty-five, she nearly didn't answer it, sure that John was going to break up with her. After seeing that, what man wouldn't?

"Iris, answer the door. Please."

She'd never heard John sound like that before, and finally she drew back the chain lock on the door, opened it. He took two quick steps into the apartment, closed the door behind him, and then wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug. "Oh God, Iris…I'm so sorry."

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry I didn't tell you…" She took a step back, couldn't even look at him as she took a deep breath. "It was…the night Kevin died. He…asked me to come out with him and a couple of friends from the Force. It was the first time in a couple of weeks we'd both had off at the same time, and I didn't care that there would be other people, I just wanted to enjoy being with him…" she knew she was babbling, squeezed her eyes closed, trying not to cry. "He…took me out to…a gentleman's club. I'd never been to a place like that before, Dad always told me they weren't fit places for a young lady…there were strippers, and I wasn't really happy…Kevin kept ordering me different drinks, I don't know how many, while his friends laughed and threw money at the dancers, and by the time they all got up, I couldn't walk in a straight line. I don't remember getting out to the car. I don't remember the ride to—wherever it was. I don't even remember where it was. But when we got there we walked in and there were…men all over, sitting on a couch, drinking, I remember beer and cigarette smoke, and then…" she took a deep breath, digging back through seven years of memories trying to remember that night.

"There was a bed…Kevin and I lay down, and we…we…and then when he was…done, he got up. I think…I started trying to get my clothes on, but he offered me another drink. And then he opened the door, and the guys were there. And they came in. I…I think I tried to fight, but Kevin said to just relax and enjoy it. And then…the first one…"

She couldn't stand anymore; her legs folded under her, and she huddled on her couch, curled against the cushions. "I don't remember much after that first one. I remember hobbling out to his car a lot later, I was so…sore…and he and one of his friends were on either side of me, almost carrying me. And then my next memory is a flash of headlights, and then the car we were in was rolling, and I threw up, I was so disoriented…and then this horrible pain in my legs as the front seat fell back onto my thighs, and when I looked down, it was Kevin, and he was dying, staring at me as the light went out of his eyes." And she remembered the visceral horror of it, and her stomach rebelled, and she half rolled, half fell off the couch as she ran for the bathroom and threw up what little she'd been able to eat that day.

When she finally stopped heaving the horror returned, and she sat on the bathroom floor and sobbed. She barely noticed when a pair of strong arms wrapped around her upper body, pulled her upright, guided her into her bedroom, then laid her down on her bed. A moment later, and he lay beside her, pulling her close to him, against a strong, broad chest; she felt the comfort and sympathy radiating from him and she buried her face in his chest and cried. Seven years of burying these feelings inside herself; the shame, humiliation, betrayal, pain and misery, then the confusion of the crash and the nightmarish horror of seeing her fiance die in front of her. "I…don't know how long it was before EMTs reached us. I think I passed out a few times. The next clear memory I have is waking up in the hospital with both my legs immobilized, and Dad crying beside my bed." She took a deep, shaky breath. "I never told Dad what happened that night. I never told anyone. Kevin was the son of my Dad's former partner; they were close, I called him uncle when I was a kid. If I told Dad it would break up his friendship with Jake Holloway forever—or make him mad at me because he'd think I was lying. No one I know ever spoke to me about what happened that night; I don't know if anyone I knew was in that room." Tears started again. "God help me, I don't know if I really want to know."

It was dark in her bedroom when she finally stopped. In the meanwhile, however, John had lain beside her. Hadn't let her go. She felt curiously drained and empty; hollow, as if there had been a tight knot somewhere down inside her that she'd never even known was there. And now it was gone. "I'm sorry, John. I had no right to drag you into this."

"Iris. Don't be sorry. You had every right." A moment of silence, then, "That's why you were so hesitant that first night we were together."

"I didn't consciously remember what happened. But…there were flashes. Little bits of memory."

"You kept freezing. I thought it was odd then, but now…it's perfectly understandable. Iris, if I had known, I would never have pushed you that first time."

"You didn't push me. I wanted it too." A blush. "And you couldn't have known. I didn't tell you." She sighed. "And now…I have to tell everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Simon Carter was at my office door this morning. He took my office key, officially suspended me until a hearing can be convened tomorrow."

"Simon Carter?" The sudden intensity in John's voice snapped her out of her exhausted haze.

"Yes. Why?"

He didn't answer her. "Did he say anything to you?"

"He took my key. Told me there would be an official IAB hearing tomorrow to discuss my misconduct." She thought back to what she could remember of that morning. "He told me if I resigned today—this morning—he wouldn't report me to the psych board and I would still be able to practice elsewhere."

John sat up in bed, snapped on her bedside lamp. "Iris, think back. Very carefully. Has it seemed to you that you recognized him? His face, his hands, maybe his voice?"

She frowned. "The first time we saw him, at the IAB inquest into my altercation with Andy Bowers, I kept thinking his voice sounded familiar but I couldn't remember where I'd met him before. I figured my mind was playing tricks on me."

John swore under his breath.

"John, what?" He knew something, something he was keeping from her. "What's wrong? And, while we're on that subject, you said this morning you knew I'd been set up. How did you know?"

He hesitated.

"John, please. I…I need to know. I need to know what happened that night so I can face the hearing tomorrow."

He looked searchingly at her. "Iris, do you really want to know? A little while ago you said you didn't."

"I don't, but I have to." She met his gaze steadily. "Please, John. If you know something I don't, please tell me."

A moment of hesitation. Then, "The clip Simon has is barely a minute long."

"Oh…kay." She acknowledged warily.

"The full cellphone video is actually about thirty minutes. And that minute he showed you, the minute that has been circulating in the Department, is the only minute in which you did anything that could be considered consensual. And that was toward the end when you were so out of it that you couldn't have consciously known what you were doing."

Her heart stopped. She could barely breathe. "You saw the whole thing?"

He nodded mutely. "I'm sorry, Iris."

She said the only thing she could think of. "How?"

Now he looked uneasy. "You know Harold's a computer genius."

"I…your friend saw this?" Oh, this was getting worse by the minute. "I bet he called me a whore, like Simon did." Bitterness.

"He never said that. Harold would never say that. He questioned how well I knew you, but I told him you wouldn't have done that willingly. I told him there had to be more. And…he found the entire video. He apologized to me after he found it. And he showed me the whole thing." His voice sharpened. "Back up. Simon Carter called you a whore?"

It hurt so much when he said it. "And…a slut." She could barely choke out the word.

"Iris, he had no business saying that to you." He took a deep breath. "He was there that night."

She stared wordlessly at him, shocked.

"He's on the video. He was there that night, Iris. That's why you keep thinking you've heard his voice before." John's voice was steel. "That's probably why he hates you so much. He probably doesn't know you don't remember that night. All he sees is that you're now in a position to expose what he—and probably other officers he knows—did to you."

She blinked. "It…it was just a rough hazing, John."

He looked at her, and she saw that ice-cold fury in the depths of his eyes. "Is that what you call it?"

She couldn't look at him; she dropped her eyes, fiddled with a stray thread on the bedspread. "Kevin…that's what…he called it. I…it was my fault, I shouldn't have drunk so much. I shouldn't have let them…let Kevin…"

He held her shoulders in a grip so tight it almost hurt, forcing her to look at him. "Iris. It's not your fault. You trusted him. You loved him enough to promise to marry him. No one should ever have to be wary of someone they love." He softened his grip but there was still ice and steel in his eyes. and...hurt, an old, deep hurt. "I've been in the military, Iris. And military hazing can be bad—but honestly, nothing I saw in that video comes even close to a 'hazing'. There's another word entirely for what Kevin did to you—what Kevin set up to happen to you."

"Do you have the full video?" He nodded mutely. "Show me."

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he got up off the bed, led the way into the kitchen. In silence she put her laptop on the kitchen table and started it up as he dug out a flash drive from a pocket and plugged it in, waited for her computer to read the drive, then chose a media file and cued it up.

And sat in numb shock. The video had come from Kevin's phone—it had to be. Because Kevin had put the phone down on the dresser when he'd walked her into the bedroom. She was dazed, uncoordinated, and he dropped her onto the bed as he took his clothes off. When he tried to take her clothes off, she protested, but he overrode her easily. Then…well, there was nothing gentle or loving about what happened next.

"He…swore he loved me. We…we grew up together. How…" she couldn't even get words out. Tears streamed unheeded down her face as she heard herself crying, begging Kevin to take it easy, to not to be so rough. She watched as Kevin got up, reached for an open beer bottle on the dresser of whatever room this had been in. She saw herself protesting weakly, but he practically forced her to drink it—and she understood. "He…he drugged me. There…had to have been something…"

"Yes." John was tight-lipped, angry, but not at her; he stood behind her chair, arms draped over her shoulders, letting her lean against him as she continued to watch. Kevin opened the door, and six men came in the room. Officers and rookies, a couple of them even in uniform. On screen, her younger self looked confused, hurt; she was crying, begging Kevin to please stop, but Kevin reached for the phone on the dresser, took it in his hand, aimed it at her. "It's okay, Riss," he said to her. "Just lie back and enjoy it." She even tried to smile at him; but the smile turned to a pained grimace as the first man entered her, used her. Then the second.

And then the third man came to the bed, and Iris heard herself gasp. "John. That's …"

"…Simon Carter." There was grim, flat hardness in his tone.

In silence she watched as Simon grabbed handfuls of her hair, pulling her head so far back her mouth opened involuntarily, then forced himself in. Iris-on-the-screen choked, gasped for air, fought, lashing out, scratching the inside of his thighs with her fingernails. He responded by punching the side of her head so hard she fell over. But when he would have hit her again, Kevin intervened. "No marks. We can't afford to leave marks or we risk being discovered."

"She left marks on me!" The voice was unmistakably Simon Carter's.

Iris, sitting in her kitchen chair, shuddered in revulsion. "How could I have forgotten? And then she gasped. "Wait. I never said…no…"

"Because you were drunk and then drugged, Iris." John said, very quietly, behind her. "Whether you said no or not is irrelevant. Kevin deliberately got you intoxicated. Anything after those first few drinks was rape. I know that's not what you call it, but that's what this was." His arms tightened around her, and he buried his face in her hair. "I'm so sorry, Iris. I want to hunt down every single one of the bastards in that video…"

"Don't, John," she said quietly. "There's nothing that can be done about it now…" and she stopped.

"What?" he felt the sudden change in her body. "What, Iris?"

"I'll take this with me to the hearing tomorrow."

"No. No, Iris. Don't do this to yourself."

"John, look at it. They planned the whole thing. I doubt I'm the only one they've ever done this to." She reached for the keyboard. "If I play this in front of the panel, Simon will be exposed. His career will be ruined. They'll start an investigation into everyone he has contact with. They'll figure out who else was there. And Simon and his friends will never be able to do this to another woman." She started to download the video from John's flash drive to her computer.

John yanked the drive from the USB port. "I won't let you do this to yourself, Iris."

"John, I've been through it. It hurts watching it now. It's going to be hell having to play this for a roomful of people tomorrow. But if going through hell will ensure they never, ever do this to anyone else again, then…it will all be worth it." She held out her hand for the drive. "Please, John. Let me do this. Let me make sure…what I went through…will mean something."

A long pause. John didn't move. Neither did Iris; she sat there holding her hand out for the drive. Finally he slowly opened his hand, and she took the drive from him, plugged it into her computer. "Kevin must have sent the video to his friends. That must be how Simon got it." A sob choked her voice. "We grew up together. We went to school together. Our parents were friends, my brothers thought of him as another brother. How…how he could…" she couldn't finish.

"I don't know, Iris," She looked up at John, and for the first time that evening she realized what this must be doing to him too. He looked tired, anguished, as he leaned against the kitchen counter, stared at the floor. "I could never…I would never…"

"I know." She stood and went over to him, wrapping her arms around him, and for a moment they both simply stood in silence, seeking comfort from each other. "I know you, John. I may not know everything about you—but I know _you_. You would never have done this. No matter how life tears you up, you'd never be this…uncaring."

"I never would. Never. I don't understand how your fiancé could have. And, Iris," he leaned back, cupped her chin in his hand. "You said there was nothing I would ever tell you that could make you run. Now I'll tell you the same thing. This doesn't change how I see you, how I feel about you."

"Are you sure?" She had no idea how vulnerable her tentative whisper made her sound.

"I'm positive." He kissed her forehead. "Now do me a favor and check your email."

"Why?" But she moved to comply, removing the flash drive from her computer and handing it back to him, then clicking on her internet browser.

"Because I signed that doctor-patient confidentiality form today. You have to countersign it or I won't be able to be at that hearing tomorrow."

"John? Are you serious?" She twisted in her chair to look at him.

"When I signed it and emailed it this afternoon, I just wanted to be there so you'd know someone was there for moral support. Now, after hearing what Simon said to you, knowing you're determined to play this to bring him and his friends down…who knows how he'll react. He's held a grudge against you for almost eight years, and I know what that can do to a person. Your number's up because of him and I _have_ to be there to protect you."

His intensity startled her. "Worried you haven't taught me enough self-defense in the gym the last few months?" she teased lightly. "I don't think you know this, John, but I do still have my Academy piece and I do have a license to carry."

"You won't need it. You won't need it because I'll be there."

"John, if they find out about us…"

"Iris, I really don't care what they might think. Your life, your safety, is more important than anything else. Simon's capable of doing anything. I won't let him take you away from me." There was steely determination in his voice.

"I'll be fine," she said quietly as she opened the email with John's completed waiver in it. "My number isn't up, as you so quaintly put it. And I'm perfectly capable of defending myself. But if you insist…" she hit the button that would append her electronic signature to the form, then sent the email to the IAB email address. "There."

"Thank you, Iris."

She smiled up at him as she shut down her computer. "No, John. Thank you."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

_Author's Note: I like to flatter myself that I'm pretty open-minded. I also like to think that I'm pretty tolerant of other peoples' ideas, and I will defend someone's right to say what they think, however reprehensible those thoughts may be to me personally. However, during the last week that's been tested in rather unexpected ways and through the most unexpected medium, and I've discovered my limits. Readers, please note: ANY FURTHER REVIEWS THAT ESPOUSE/SUPPORT RACIALLY-BASED OPINIONS UNCONNECTED TO EITHER THE SHOW OR THIS STORY WILL BE DELETED. NO FURTHER WARNINGS WILL BE GIVEN. _

_For everyone else, please enjoy the story. I welcome any comments, criticism, thoughts, and suggestions so long as they are constructive and on-topic._

She wasn't so sure by the next morning.

It wasn't hard to pretend to be cheerful when she woke up with John in bed beside her. Snoring. He rarely ever spent the night, and rarer still were the times when she could wake up next to him in the morning. It hadn't taken her very long at all to figure out that John and Harold had something else going on the side; Harold would call, and John would kiss and run. She'd been a little miffed the first few times it had happened, but the night John and Lionel had attended the gala with her, only to get involved in…something else…she'd figured then that he'd used her to get in that gala for whatever reason and it had nothing to do with his job as a cop. Which made her even more firmly convinced he wasn't a cop.

But it was still nice to awaken with him beside her. And from the smile on his face when he opened his eyes and found her looking down at him, watching him sleep, he felt the same way too.

But he had to run home and change before going to work, and once alone, the façade of bravery she'd put up for him crumbled. She could admit to herself that she was completely, categorically terrified of walking into the hearing room and playing this video for everyone there. A large part of her didn't want to do this, almost deleted the video from her computer, but another part of her, the part of her that had forced John to give her the video, was adamant about making sure this ugly little secret was exposed. Yes, it would hurt. Her professional standing tin the department was going to be ruined, she was sure of that. Even if they did let her keep her job, she knew eventually she was going to leave the force. She didn't know when, but eventually she was going to. It was just a matter of whether it would be today, or later.

But pride, and the thought that maybe she might be able to make sure it would never happen to another woman again, got her dressed in one of her best suits, got her to wash away the night's emotional turmoil and apply makeup carefully to hide the dark circles around her eyes. If Simon expected to see her creep into the hearing room this morning a cowed, broken woman, he had another think coming.

Her stomach was in knots as she went up the steps to the Oh-Eight's lobby; to be confronted by the same deafening silence she'd faced the day before. She nearly faltered. _I can't do this,_ she thought for one wild minute_. I can't do this, I can't walk in there and do this knowing what they 'll think of me_…but even as she nearly started to turn, to walk out, she saw a tall masculine form step into the hallway from the back doors that led out to the motorpool. Across the intervening hall space, their eyes locked; and she saw the encouragement, warmth, sympathy in his even though the expression on his face never changed.

But it gave her the courage she needed to walk up and press the button on the elevator.

Her steps faltered as she got off the elevator; but a gentle hand casually brushed her shoulder as John placed a hand against the elevator door, presumably to keep it from closing on her. A tiny, nearly imperceptible gesture of support, but she could feel it, and she was grateful for it. When she stepped off the elevator her stride was firm, her back straight, and she walked into the hearing room with her head high.

It was apparently not what Simon Carter was expecting; she saw him start slightly as she walked in. Then he studied her with narrowed eyes as John Riley walked in behind her, followed by Tom Becker; both took seats in the gallery directly behind her.

"You may approach the panel, Dr. Campbell." They were the same people who had been at the last hearing; she took heart in the fact that this time, it was the woman who sat in the chair directly facing Iris, and not Simon Carter. Carter himself was sitting in the chair to the left, the same spot the woman had occupied the last time. A subtle shift in positions that nevertheless had enormous significance; Simon wasn't the lead investigator, then. And Iris didn't have to look at him as she spoke.

She straightened her spine, held her head high as she addressed the panel. "I'm well aware of the video clip that has been circulating in the Department over the last weekend. I'm aware of what it looks like, but you must understand that the minute or so that you have seen isn't even the half of what actually happened." A deep breath. "My fiancé and I both joined the Force at the same time almost eight years ago. We were both very young, I was barely twenty-three, and we were engaged to be married. So I didn't suspect anything when he invited me to go out with him and a couple of his friends one night. He bought me a lot of drinks I'd never had before, never tasted before; and when I was…drunk, he drove me to a house with a lot of other men and he…" she took a deep breath, closed her eyes to avoid having to look at anyone. "He passed me around to his friends."

"No, you passed yourself around. The clip is pretty clear," Simon interrupted.

She drew herself up, staring him down. "I was drunk. I may also have been drugged. I was neither willing nor capable of giving informed consent to anything that happened."

"A likely story," Simon sneered.

She turned away from him, focusing on the woman. "Kevin died in a car crash that night, along with two of his friends. I broke both my legs, but Kevin's body shielded me from the worst of the wreck and I survived, although my memory of the night remained patchy and unclear."

"So you don't know if you said yes or not." Simon sneered. "Not the first time a slut thought she could pull a train and then had second thoughts."

"Simon, be silent." The woman said sharply to him. "That is no way to speak to another member of the Department." She turned back to Iris. "We know these things happen, Dr. Campbell, but you'll understand that without proof, it would be difficult to prove whether this was consensual or…or not."

Iris took a deep breath. "My fiancé filmed the entire…incident…on his cell phone. I was not aware of it, and I had forgotten it existed until I saw the clip that had been circulating. But…I still had some of Kevin's things, and among them was his cellphone. And I found the full video he took that night." She placed her laptop on the table with slightly-shaking hands. "I brought that video to play for you as proof that I was…incapable of giving consent…that night."

"You lie!" Simon surged to his feet. "You couldn't have found that video!" He turned to the woman. "We don't need to see her and her boyfriend's homemade porn. She's just trying to gain sympathy with a trumped-up grainy video –"

"Simon! Sit down!" The woman snapped. "Dr. Campbell. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes." Iris surprised herself with her firmness. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Then please proceed." She heard shifting in the gallery behind her; felt, more than saw, Tom Becker and John Riley moving their seats so that they could see her laptop screen. At least, that was what Tom was doing; John, she was surprised to note, wasn't positioning himself to see the computer. His eyes were fixed on Simon, and he'd shifted seats only just enough to leave a clear path between himself and her. She was reminded forcibly of what he'd said the night before. _Your number's up because of him. I have to be there to protect you._ And although she'd felt at the time that she could handle whatever happened, something about the way Simon was looking at her right now made her glad John had thought to sign the confidentiality waiver so he could be in the same room.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

There was absolute silence in the room as the video started playing. Iris couldn't bear to look at them, or at the video; couldn't bear to see pity or condemnation in their eyes. She stared down at the tabletop, and the only thing that kept her from bolting from the room when she heard her own voice begging Kevin to stop being so rough was the fact that John was right behind her, offering her silent sympathy; and the fact that she very much wanted to see what would happen when someone recognized Simon Carter…

"Is that…" Tom Becker was on his feet, staring at the screen of her laptop. "Oh my God, that's IAB Agent Carter!" And he raised his head, stared accusingly at Carter. "That's why you hate Dr. Campbell so much, you raped her and you didn't want anyone to know so you're trying to get her kicked out of the Department!"

Simon Carter did the last thing any of them (except maybe John, Iris would think later to herself) expected he'd do. He went berserk.

He lurched out of his chair and lunged for Iris, arms outstretched, hands curled into claws. She gasped, stumbled backward. He pursued her. "You bitch," he snarled. "You bitch, you play the little whore for me and my son, and then he dies because of you and you stand there acting all pure and innocent!"

Iris took another step backward, heart pounding in her chest. "I…your son?"

"Michael! My Michael! He was in the car with you that night, you and Kevin and Tyrone! We were both there, you took turns with us, it's right on that video and then you were the only survivor when the car wrecked!" He lunged forward, and she ducked reflexively behind the table, waiting to hear him hit the other side, waiting for him to grab her.

But there was a confused babble of voices, all drowned out by the female IAB agent. "Detective Riley! Restrain him!" Iris barely registered John racing around her to head Simon off; she remained ducked behind the table until he felt a hand on her arm, and looked up to see Tom Becker. "Tom?" she whispered.

"It's all right, Dr. Campbell. Detective Riley's got him. He won't hurt you." Tom was gentle as he helped her stand.

She gripped the edge of the table for support as she turned on shaking legs toward Simon. "There were two other people in the car that night besides Kevin and I. I went to both their funerals. Michael Slade and Tyrone Simpson. Michael…was your son?"

"Yes." Carter was on his feet, but his hands were firmly (and not gently) cuffed behind him, and John held him in a grip so tight that Iris knew he wasn't going to get away.

"How…did both you and your son end up in that house that night as part of the hazing group?"

"Your fiancé set it up. Both of you were rookies and there were two ways you could be hazed in. Tyrone was all set to have you fight Lieutenant Alicia Morrow, she was the best fighter at the time. But we all knew you were better. You'd beat her up some, put her on the mat, and that would have been it. Your fiancé was weaker, and he would have faced Lieutenant Tate—remember him? Best fighter in the precinct. Tate knew Kevin was afraid of him and suggested to Kevin as a joke that Kevin could take care of his hazing and yours if he brought you to the clubhouse and let all of us flatback you in. Surprised all of us when he agreed to it. And we were all surprised he actually went through with it." He snorted. "So afraid of getting beat up himself that he threw you at us to take a hazing for both of you. Shows how much _you_ knew about him."

Iris's legs crumpled under her, and she sat down on the floor hard, buried her face in her hands, and cried. She didn't care who was there, what they might think. She'd gone for almost eight years wondering why he'd set her up, and now she knew, and the enormity of what Kevin had done hit her like a ton of bricks. She barely noticed when Tom left her side, going to Simon and gripping the man's arm tightly with a nod to John. John left Simon wordlessly and went to her, lifting her almost effortlessly off the floor and settling her into a chair. He didn't quite hug her, but it certainly looked like he wanted to.

The other members of the IAB panel were still sitting stunned in their chairs, but the woman marched up to Simon. "You said 'clubhouse' and 'all of us'. So there's a gang of you in the NYPD getting together to do this? How many female rookies have you raped?"

For the first time Simon seemed to realize he'd just gotten himself into trouble. "It wasn't rape! They all agreed to it!"

"Dr. Campbell never agreed to it."

"How do we know her fiancé didn't talk her into it? And now she's just crying rape because she knows if she says she agreed to it her career's over? She never said no!"

John took two swift steps away from Iris and slammed his fist into Simon Carter's face. Tom made no move to stop John, nor did he let Carter back away as John gripped Simon's chin in a military 'attention grab'. "No reasoning, sane person could look at that video and think Iris wanted it. In any way. She was drunk and drugged. And maybe you were too…busy…to notice, but she did say no. Multiple times. You and all your buddies ignored her."

"Detective Riley." The female IAB agent interrupted him. "That's enough. Let go of him." John hesitated a moment, as if he wanted to hit Carter again, then stepped back and went to Iris. She had quieted, simply too emotionally drained to process anything else.

"Officer Becker, please take Mr. Carter to an interrogation room. Mr. Carter, I'm going to be back with the Internal Affairs division chief and the Assistant District Attorney and you had better think very, very hard about whether your friendship with the other—people—in your 'clubhouse' is worth doing jail time for. The District Attorney might be more lenient if you cooperate."

She turned to John and Iris. "Dr. Campbell. The NYPD has a no-tolerance stance on hazing. What you went through was inexcusable and unpardonable. I am very sorry for what you went through."

"It's…all right," Iris felt exhausted. "Please…if you need the video to help identify the others…you're welcome to it."

"Dr. Campbell, are you sure?" the woman looked surprised and concerned. "This is going to be extremely hard for you."

"What I went through was hard. But it will mean something if I can keep this from happening to another woman again."

The woman was silent for a moment, looking at Iris thoughtfully. Then she said, "Internal Affairs thanks you, Dr. Campbell. We'll take care of Simon. In the meantime, please feel free to take the rest of the day off, with pay; I realize this morning—the last couple of days, actually—have been very difficult for you and you're certainly not going to be able to work today." She turned to John. "Detective Riley, please see that Dr. Campbell gets home." She shifted her stance to include everyone in the room. "When Detective Riley gets back, could you and Officer Becker please report to my office. As both of you are witnesses to the events this morning, I will have to ask that you sign confidentiality agreements. And after seeing what was on that video today, I am reluctant to involve any other officers in this investigation, for Dr. Campbell's sake, so Internal Affairs will also be contacting your captains to enlist your aid in rounding up the rest of…the people… in that video. I refuse to call them officers, they are a disgrace to the department and the uniform."

Tom took a breath, as if about to speak; she looked at him. "Please feel free to speak, Mr. Becker."

"I don't like IA. I always thought you guys were vultures trying to tell us how to do our jobs. I'm not going to become an IAB agent, but for my sister's sake I'll help you with this." He took a deep breath. "My older sister joined the force five years ago. She quit after a night of drinking with her partner led to her waking up hurting in the morning with no memory of what happened. She found out she was pregnant soon afterwards. When folks in the Department found out, she started getting harassing emails, texts on her phone from people she didn't know calling her all kinds of names. My family didn't believe her when she said she didn't know who the father was; I was the only one who supported her, and in the end it wasn't enough. She committed suicide." There was anger in his eyes when he looked up. "For her sake, and for Dr. Campbell's, I'll help you find the people who did this. Because they killed my sister."

Iris's mouth dropped open. Guilt crashed into her. "Tom…I'm so sorry…if I'd spoken up earlier…your sister would still be alive…"

"It's all right, Dr. Campbell." Tom said quietly. "There's nothing we can do about it now except make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else again. You said it yourself, in session—there are no easy answers in life, even if we can't make things better for ourselves, we can make things better for someone else, somewhere else. And sometimes, that's enough." He gripped Carter's arm firmly and steered Carter out of the room. A quiet nod from the woman to the other two panel members, who had remained glued to their seats as the events unfolded in the hearing room, and they left too, until the only people left in the room was John, Iris, and the female IAB agent.

"I'm IAB Agent Amy Turner, by the way," the woman said to Iris and John. Then she smiled. "And if you two intended to keep your relationship a secret, well, you're not doing a very good job of it."

Iris felt her face flush. John just went stone still, his face an emotionless mask.

Turner waved her hand at them. "It's probably not evident to a lot of people. There was some talk when John started saying hi to you, Dr. Campbell, in the lobby, but it's been going on so long that it's practically a non-issue right now. I certainly am not going to say anything. As long as it doesn't affect either of your work performances, doesn't reflect badly on the Department, and doesn't turn the precinct into a soap opera, I will certainly not be the one to tell you what to do with your own time." John's face unfroze—slightly. Iris relaxed.

"It's been a long day for you, Dr. Campbell. That's why I told you to take the rest of the day off. I have to meet with the IAB division chief and we'll have to decide if we can charge him with anything."

"He raped Iris." John said tightly.

"The statute of limitations on charging someone for rape in the State of New York is five years," Turner said, though not unsympathetically. "It's been…what, almost six years?"

"Almost eight," Iris whispered. "But if you can prove that Simon and his…friends…raped Tom Becker's sister and then drove her to suicide, you can get them for that, right?"

"If we can prove it. Or if we have a confession. Or maybe if we can find any more recent victims. It'll depend on what Mr. Carter decides. Either way, his career with the NYPD is over." She turned to Iris. "I'm sorry, Dr. Campbell. Simon was the one who brought the allegations of misconduct against you; we had no idea it was out of a personal vendetta, a need to keep his own activity a secret."

"Are you going to arrest him?" John asked.

"I don't know at this point, Detective Riley. And it's nothing for you to worry about, anyway. We'll take care of him." She patted Iris's arm. "You go home and take it easy for the rest of the day. I'm sure you're exhausted."

"I'm a little tired," Iris said quietly. "Thank you." Turner nodded and left.

"Let me take you home," John said as he took her elbow and steered her out of the hearing room and down the hallway. Iris could still feel coiled tension in his body as he took her arm.

"John, I'm fine." She poked him in the ribs with her elbow. "Relax."

But there was a hardness in his eyes when he looked down at her, a fierce intensity that should have scared her, but instead actually made her feel…safe. "I'm coming over after I get off this evening and I'll spend the night."

"John. I'm fine." She insisted.

"You're fine now. I'm going to make sure you stay that way. Simon could still come after you. You're not out of danger yet."

"What, is this part of that whole 'my number's up' paranoia?" she teased lightly, but he didn't crack a smile. Instead, he stopped walking, looked intently at her. It looked, for a moment, like he was about to say something, but then thought better of it and he started walking again. "What? John, you were about to say something. What?"

Again he hesitated. Then he spoke. "I've seen too many bad things happen to good people, Iris. I got into this to stop those things from happening. You're one of the best people I know. I…I can't lose you. Simon won't take you away from me."

"You're serious."

"Yes."

"You really think he could come after me?"

"Yes." No hesitation. He absolutely believed she was in danger.

Well, if spending the night with her would help ease that paranoia, then she'd go along with it. It might be a good time to try and get a little deeper under his skin, too; she was positive he'd been about to say something else back there, and had changed his mind at the last minute. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No. You don't."

She sighed. "All right. Then…I'd be happy if you'd spend the night."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

"John!"

She yanked the door open and stepped partly out into the hall to take one of the bags of groceries from him. "What did you do, buy the whole store?"

He smiled at her from between two more bags. "That's what I thought when I saw you come through my door with all those groceries. I'm just returning the favor."

"I don't need groceries. You did."

He came into the apartment and pushed the door shut behind him. "You do need groceries. I'm going to cook for you tonight."

She looked at him skeptically. "Do you even know how to cook? Your apartment didn't look like it."

"It was a new place," he said, slightly defensively. "And yes, I do know how to cook, it's just not much fun cooking for myself. Good food requires good company."

She smiled gently as she deposited her bag on the counter. "I'm glad you think I'm good company," she said as she took the second bag from his arms and put that down too.

He put the last bag on the counter and took her in his arms, giving her a long slow kiss. "Yes, I consider this very, very good company indeed," he said, his voice husky.

She pulled back slightly. "Are you…sure?" she whispered, tentative. "I mean…after what you saw…"

"Iris." He gathered her into his arms in a tight, impulsive hug; she returned it. "I told you, this didn't change how I felt about you. It still doesn't. That was one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do, walk in there today and play that video for the panel." He gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and turned to the grocery bags. "You said, last night, that this all would be worth it if you could keep this from happing to anyone else again. It looks like you're going to get your wish. Tom's sister wasn't the only other victim besides you; Tom said she hinted that other female rookies on the force had gone through a 'rough hazing' also, and he thinks he might know some of her friends who may have gone through it. He's going to talk to them, see what he can find out." He reached into one of the bags, dug out a tall wine bottle. "Not enough to get you drunk, Iris, I promise. Just to go with the dinner and to get you to relax. You've had a bad couple of days."

"I came home and took a long nap. I was really tired." Iris admitted as she reached into one of her cupboards for two wine glasses and poured some wine into one for herself, the other for John. "So how did it go?" she asked as she handed him the glass.

He sipped the glass as he leaned against the counter. "They didn't arrest him, unfortunately. He refused to speak with them, asked for a union lawyer. Nothing they could do after that. But they did look at the video and Turner said she's pretty sure we can find at least three of the other men who raped you that night. One of them will talk."

"One of them is going talk or you'll make one of them talk?" she challenged him. "I don't want you breaking the rules for me, John."

"I'm not breaking rules. I'm evening the score." His eyes were hard chips of blue ice. "They broke the rules first, Iris. They touched you when you didn't want to be touched. They hurt you. You almost died because they were all drunk and decided to drive home." Haunted darkness. "I'm almost glad your fiancé died, Iris. Because if he hadn't, you'd be dead by now."

"He wouldn't have…" Iris protested.

He looked at her steadily. "Can you say that, Iris? Really say that? He was too much of a coward to face a hazing on his own, so he threw you into it without a second thought. Even got you drunk and drugged you to make it easier for them. If he could do that—this boy you grew up with, went to school with, and promised to marry—do you honestly think he wouldn't have turned into a Simon Carter, or an Andy Bowers?" A hard swallow. "A Peter Arndt."

He turned his back to her, putting his glass down on the counter. Without turning around, he said quietly, "Her name was Jessica. We'd gone out for three years. We were in bed together that September morning watching those two planes hit the Twin Towers. And I re-upped, and when I came back, she'd found someone else." A fist clenched. "One night I got a phone call from her. She sounded...upset. I could tell something was wrong. But I didn't leave. I didn't go to her. It was a little while before I got back to the States. And I found out she'd died. A car accident, they said. I knew better. Her husband Peter Arndt, the man she'd left me for, had been physically abusive for months. Then one night an argument got out of hand and he killed her, then belted her into her car and crashed it to make it look like she died in the accident." An anguished hiss. "I wasn't there. She called me for help and I didn't help her. I couldn't keep her from dying."

Iris swallowed hard at the pain in his voice. Guilt, regret, and a heart-deep pain. She knew that that felt like; despite what Kevin had done, she'd truly grieved for him. "I'm sorry, John." Empty words—but he'd know she meant them.

"I couldn't bear it if that happened to you. I've lost too many people I cared about. My Dad. Jessica. Sam." A hard swallow. "Joss."

So he'd known Joss Carter. Iris had heard of her—who hadn't? She'd almost singlehandedly brought HR down, but it had cost her her own life in the process. Iris had attended the memorial ceremony in which Joss Carter had received a posthumous Purple Shield from the NYPD. "I…I held her as she died. Watched the light go out of her eyes. She was the first person…woman… I'd truly cared about since….Jessica…and then she was gone. I got into this to stop bad things from happening to good people. She was one of the best people I've ever known. And I didn't keep her from dying, just like I didn't keep Jessica from dying." His voice was husky with unshed tears. "When you lose that one person who grounds you, connects you to the world, what do you become? I got…lost. Lionel followed me halfway across the country and brought me back. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for him. But…I still felt lost." He turned, caught her gaze with his own. "And then I walked into your office that morning. And you dressed me down for trying to manipulate you." A ghost of a smile on his lips. "You caught my interest. And no matter how hard I tried afterward, I couldn't forget you. A friend of mine, Zoe, came to town. Offered to spend the night. And for the first time since I've known her, I turned her down. I looked at her but all I could see was you."

What could she say to that? Nothing. So she let her kiss say everything she wanted to say to him. It deepened, lengthened. His hands came up to cup her face, and she ran her fingers through his hair…and then a different hunger awakened. Gentleness turned into passion, and she broke off the kiss long enough to slip her shirt off over her head. He put his hands on her hips, lifted her seemingly effortlessly onto her kitchen counter, putting her face-to-face with him so she wouldn't have to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, and he didn't have to bend to reach her. His hands, strong but gentle, slid her bra straps off her shoulders, and she lost her breath in a hiss of pleasure as he stroked her bare shoulders, upper arms. Exquisite gentleness, so different from the hard, uncaring roughness she'd felt that night; and different from Kevin's inexperienced rough fumbling.

And different from the first time he'd touched her.

"John…" it was hard to think with his hands on her. She had to force herself to reach for his hands, grab his wrists, take his hands off her simply so she could form words. "Wait." He stopped, looked at her quizzically.

"You said you wouldn't let what happened change how you see me." He nodded wordlessly. "But you are. That first night, with you, on my birthday…it's different from how this feels now. You're looking at me like I'm a victim."

"I'm sorry, Iris," he said huskily. "I just…I don't want to remind you of what you went through."

"Stop thinking about it, John. What happened, happened. Nothing we can do about it now. It's just something I have to live with. But you treating me like a victim isn't going to help. It'll keep reminding me of what happened. Stop it. Just be yourself. That was…who I fell in love with."

It was the first time she'd dared to say The L-Word. The last time she'd told someone outside her family that she loved them had been Kevin—the cats and dogs at the shelter didn't count—and she had hesitated for a long time to use that word again. Had tried not to even think about it. But through the tumultuous events of the last few days, she'd come to the realization that somewhere along the way she'd fallen in love with John. She had to be crazy, out of her mind, falling for someone—falling _in love with someone_—who she didn't even really know anything about; she wasn't sure, at this point, if John Riley was even his name. But she knew _him_, even if she didn't know anything about him, and that was who she'd been first attracted to, and who she'd gotten to know during sessions in her office.

She knew he was attracted to her. That he cared for her. But he hadn't used The L-word; and just now, listening to him talk about Jessica, about Joss Carter, she knew he had loved them. Didn't know how he felt about her; but now she knew he'd had a first chance. And a second. And had lost both, in the worst ways possible. She remembered Dad's words 'Love like that comes along once in a lifetime, if you're lucky.' It was easy to understand how he'd fallen into the survivor's guilt trap; how he'd decided that shutting himself off was the best way to keep from getting hurt again. And she knew he'd never love her the way he'd loved Jessica, and Joss Carter.

But that was all right. Maybe she was being blind and stupid and foolish, falling in love with a man who might not—maybe couldn't—return it, but at least this time she'd known what she was getting into. And that reminded her…she slid off the counter, her hands going to his pant zipper—he'd obviously gone home after work, changed into something comfortable before going to the store for groceries and coming to her place.

She'd avoided the trashy romance novels Melissa gave her, with their steamy sex scenes, out of disgust. She'd never felt that way for a man, about a man, and had simply dismissed it as an author's fantastic imaginings. But her own situation with John was straight out of a soap opera—a therapist falling for a patient, for pity's sake!—and in the last few weeks she'd dug those books out of the back of her closet and started reading them. She would never, ever admit to anyone that she did—but she'd learned a few things from them.

John groaned as she started using that knowledge. "Iris…you keep that up…we'll never get dinner…"

"I could have you for dinner," she chuckled, and apparently the vibration and the changing pressure in her mouth had some interesting effects on him.

He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her to her feet. "Iris…don't start something you aren't willing to finish," he said, and she read a dark, predatory sexual hunger in his eyes. And…she wasn't afraid of it. There was no malice in it, in him. And something inside her wanted to rise to meet that challenge.

"What makes you think I'm not willing to finish it?" she initiated the kiss this time, and let herself go; let her own heat and passion loose in an aggressive, hungry kiss.

He felt the change in her, and groaned again. "Bed…more comfortable…"

"Yess…" she hissed into his mouth, and, dinner forgotten, they headed off to the bedroom.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Watching him sip the glass of wine as he stirred the pot of chili, Iris finally understood what Lionel meant. There was a lot less tension in John's body than there had been when he'd walked into her apartment that evening. He looked more relaxed, happier.

And maybe part of that had been his anguished confession to her in the kitchen. She'd have to think about that later; but it seemed as if he'd finally gotten rid of something that had festered deep inside him, for a long time. He was acting sort of the way she'd felt when she woke up late this afternoon. After the emotional rollercoaster of the last couple of days, the emotional shock of not only seeing what had happened on that night she still couldn't remember, but now also knowing why Kevin had done it had, strangely, led to her waking up this afternoon feeling about ten pounds lighter. The hard knot of grief and pain and betrayal, a knot made of questions gone unanswered for eight years, had finally unraveled inside her, and she hadn't felt like she was betraying Kevin's memory when she'd gotten into bed with John that evening.

And what an evening it had already turned out to be.

She had to try very hard not to lick her lips as she watched John cook. Dressed in only a pair of loose sweats, shirtless and shoeless, he looked charmingly domestic in her kitchen. Gone was the hard 'Wonderboy' front he put on for everyone else in the world except her. Now she could see the warm, caring, funny, gentle soul she'd first glimpsed in sessions in her office. And her heart hurt for him; so many things in his life had combined to make that front, so at odds with his real character, necessary.

"Here, try this," he finally said, turning around from the stove with his hand cupped under the wooden cooking spoon he was using to make the chili. "I don't know how spicy you like it so I don't want to put too much pepper in it."

She closed her lips over the end of the spoon slowly, hoping it wouldn't be too hot; it wasn't hot enough to burn her mouth, but she could certainly feel the heat; not only regular hot heat, but also the slight burn from the peppers. The rich flavor spread over her tongue, and she closed her eyes for a moment to savor the complex flavors. When she opened them again, John was watching her with amusement in his eyes…and something else.

"I take it that was good."

"Yes," She grinned, suddenly aware of what her slow movements must have done to his libido. She felt a flush spread over her face, and grinned. "Good enough for me to want to get to dinner. No more foreplay till after dinner."

"Tell yourself that. You're making it hard for me to keep my hands off you." He grumbled good-naturedly as he went back to stirring the chili in the pot.

She was about to answer that when there was a knock at her door. Since visitors were so rare, she stared at it. "I hardly ever have visitors. Except Dad. And he has a key. I wonder who this could be?" She looked at John, mystified—and was startled to see the sudden change from warm and relaxed to cold and predatory. She poked him in the arm. "Relax, John. You're not killing anyone at my front door." He put the spoon down in the pot wordlessly and headed for the bedroom.

She was about to call after him, to tell him he didn't have to hide from whoever the visitor was, then shrugged helplessly. She'd just see who it was and send them on their way. Probably Mrs. Hankins down the hall; the elderly woman was in the habit of coming over on the pretense of borrowing milk or sugar but really just wanted to talk to someone; Iris humored her when she had the time. So she went to the door, didn't even look through it as she drew the chain lock back in its slider and started to open the door. "Good evening, Mrs. Hankins—"

She never finished her sentence.

A hard hand gripped her throat, cutting off her words and her air. She brought her hands up to claw fruitlessly at the hand on her throat as Simon Carter walked into her apartment, pushing her backwards in front of him by her throat. Terror choked her at the malice in his eyes.

"You bitch." Simon snarled, his voice echoing through her apartment. "You bitch."

She couldn't breathe. Spots swam in her vision. Her head pounded. Blood roared in her ears; she barely heard her bedroom door open, but she did hear John's voice; cold, hard, flat with hatred. "Let go of her."

Simon spun Iris around, pinning her back to his chest. One hand had a gun pointed at Iris's head; the other kept a tight grip on her throat, cutting off almost all of her air, making her body have to concentrate on just getting breath; she couldn't fight him if she couldn't breathe. "She playing the whore for you, too?" he sneered elegantly. "I should have known that first time I saw the two of you that you had a thing going." He grinned. "You in the mood to share?" The hand left Iris's throat, and she gasped in a huge breath, air burning in her suddenly raw throat—and the hand grabbed a handful of her left breast, bare under the thin t-shirt she wore because she hadn't bothered to put a bra on after she and John had made love earlier—and he crushed the flesh in a grip so hard she cried out in pain.

"I'll kill you for that." There was no emotion in John's voice; he'd locked it all down, and there was only cold calculation in his eyes as he looked at Simon Carter.

Carter snickered. "You won't." Keeping the gun aimed at Iris's head, he released her breast with is other hand and reached down. "I wasn't expecting her to have company, but I the handcuffs I brought for her will fit you just as well."

As soon as his hand left the front of her body on its way to his hip, Iris acted. She grabbed the wrist of his gun hand in both her hands, used it as a pivot point to spin out of the way, but she also kept her right hand gripping his arm and twisted it at the same time. The gun fell out of his hand; she caught it before it could hit the floor.

That was when a gray-and-white ball of fluff streaked out from behind the living room couch and launched itself at Simon Carter's face. Simon screamed as Zeya landed on his shoulders with all claws out, raking his face with her forepaws; he grabbed wildly for the ball of hissing, spitting cat and managed to dislodge her, then threw Zeya across Iris's living room and against the wall. Zeya yowled as she flew through the air, a yowl that cut off abruptly as she hit the wall, slid down it, didn't move.

"Zeya!" But Zeya didn't move, and Iris didn't have time to worry about her cat. She had the gun in her hand, pointed it at Simon. "Hold it right there!"

Simon roared and lunged at her.

A blur raced past her and connected with Simon in the middle of the room; John had launched himself at Simon as soon as Iris was out of the way. Iris huddled with her back to the kitchen island, pointing the gun, trying to get aim at Simon. But Simon and John were too closely entangled, in constant motion, and she couldn't get a clear shot. Grunts from both men, the sound of fists hitting flesh; the deeper, heavier tone of the majority of the grunts was Simon Carter. John himself was eerily silent, not an ounce of energy going to anything except pounding Simon Carter. His fists flew with unerring accuracy, giving better than he got; Iris had never once seen this side of him before, and she was shaken…but not so shaken that she stopped looking for a moment, an opportunity, to end the fight.

And as soon as she saw it, she took it.

The gunshots echoed in her apartment; Mrs. Hankins, down the hall, surely had heard it and was probably on the phone this very second calling 911. But it was a moot point; Iris hadn't been the top of her Academy class for nothing. She hadn't spent her childhood out behind the barn shooting BBs and paintballs at targets with her father and brothers, hadn't accompanied her Dad on hunting trips upstate, to be a bad shot.

Simon Carter never knew what hit him; he flew backwards against Iris's apartment door with a surprised look on his face, and by the time his ass hit the floor, he was dead, still looking surprised at the two spreading red stains on his upper left chest.

Iris lowered the gun with shaking hands. Although she had told herself not to kill him, the lessons Dad had taught her, plus the lessons that had been drummed into her at the Academy and never forgotten, had taken over. _Double tap, center mass. Stop an enemy by whatever means necessary_. And yes, Simon was dead, and John was standing in the middle of the room, alone, breathing hard. His eyes were hard as he looked at Simon's body, then he took a huge step over to Iris as she grabbed the edge of the kitchen island for support.

"Iris…" he said quietly. "Are you…all right?"

"I've never killed anyone…before…" she whispered shakily, putting Carter's gun down on the edge of the kitchen island. As she did so, a bundle of white and gray fur caught her eye, and she stumbled forward with a sob. "Zeya!"

But she'd seen too many dead and dying dogs and cats at the shelter to not understand when she lifted Zeya's slight body in her arms. She crumpled to her knees on the floor, hugging Zeya's body, crying and crying, and beside her, John knelt, silent, not knowing what to do or say.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

She couldn't stop crying as uniforms swarmed her apartment. John stood at the other end of the room, talking to the Lieutenant who had arrived at the scene, carefully trying to maintain the fiction that he had been stopping by her apartment to give her news about the case, and had walked in on Simon assaulting Iris. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, a result of the capillaries in her eyes bursting with the pressure of Simon's chokehold; Iris had some magnificent bruises on her throat and, she suspected, her breast would be in similar condition when she got to the hospital to get checked out.

Simon's gun had been confiscated as evidence; Iris was glad she'd thought to put it on the counter and glad that John hadn't thought to touch it; the only prints would be Simon's and her own, clearing him of any suspicion of being involved in the shooting. When he'd gone to her bedroom, right before she'd opened the door, it hadn't been to hide, as she had thought; he'd gone and put his shirt on. By the time the uniforms had responded to Mrs. Hankins' frantic call about hearing gunshots, John had his shoes on and looked like he'd indeed just walked in on Simon assaulting Iris. His knuckles were cut and bleeding, but other than that he was unhurt; Simon hadn't hurt him.

Although his dark skin didn't show immediate bruising, Simon had taken the worst of the punishment; Iris had known John was skilled in hand-to hand unarmed combat, but she'd never seen anyone fight with the intensity John had; he'd looked like he really wanted to kill Simon. As medical professionals from the Medical Examiner's took Simon's body away, Iris saw John watch them leave with a look in his eyes that said he badly wanted to hit Simon a few more times.

But there was nothing anyone could do for Zeya. She'd raked Simon's face pretty badly with her claws; he had a slashed eyelid, lip and nose, and Zeya's corpse had been carefully bagged and taken away as evidence because Simon's blood was all over her paws. Iris was now lying on her couch, drained and exhausted; too exhausted even to cry for her beloved cat anymore. The last couple of days had taken its toll on her, and she really just wanted to lie down and sleep and forget everything that had happened.

"Dr. Campbell?" a serious young EMT looked into her eyes kindly. "We're going to take you to the hospital now for an exam. Can you stand?"

No she couldn't. She just wanted to lie there and tune the world out. She was numb with shock, drained and suffering from bone-deep exhaustion, both mental and physical. But… "Yes, I can stand," she whispered, and struggled to her feet with the help of the EMTs.

She sat in the back of the ambulance in a daze, covered with a blanket because she was still shaking from shock. It had all happened so quickly—she'd never killed anyone before, although it wasn't the first time she'd seen death; she'd gone hunting as a child with her father and brothers, and they'd killed deer. She'd also been present at a few euthanasia sessions at the shelter. But she'd never before shot at a living person, much less killed them. Although she'd been told at the Academy that it might become inevitable that someday they might have to kill someone in the line of duty, Iris had never once given any of those lessons another thought after she'd quit the Force. And what disturbed her now was that although she was shocked and unsettled at the entire incident, she had no regrets about having killed Simon Carter. None whatsoever. She was glad he was dead. Part of it, she figured as she analyzed her own feelings, was that he'd hurt her personally and deeply, and she was, after all, completely human. She hated Simon and couldn't bring herself to regret his death. And another part of it was that he'd killed her beloved Zeya.

But another part of it was relief that Simon wasn't going to be able to tell anyone that John had been at her apartment—in her apartment. Not so much for herself; somewhere in the last couple of days, she'd come to a conclusion that she was going to leave the Department. She didn't know where she'd go from here, but she had known she wasn't going to stay. Her relationship with John being discovered really didn't matter to her anymore.

Her concern was for John. Whatever he was doing at the Department, he was there for a reason, and being discovered, and possibly kicked off the Force, could spell disaster for him. She wasn't sure how, or why, but she felt it instinctively. She had to keep that from happening; she had to keep that secret. And she'd just killed someone to do it. Okay, so she was also protecting herself, and she was also under no illusions that Simon would have left her alive; she was positive he would have raped and killed her, horribly and gruesomely, if she'd been alone, if John hadn't been there, and if John hadn't taught her self-defense in the gym on their off days. Simon was furious with her for having exposed his hazing club, and wouldn't have hesitated to kill her if he thought that would keep her from testifying. But she had killed him, and she was glad she had because it also served the purpose of keeping John's secret.

In numb silence she allowed herself to be checked by the doctors; a representative from the Medical Examiner's office took pictures of her bloodshot eyes, the parallel dark bruises of four fingers and a thumb wrapped around her throat; the bruises on one breast where Simon had grabbed her. She cringed at this part, closed her eyes, tried not to cry from the humiliation of having yet another private part of her body photographed; but they were gentle and sympathetic, and it didn't last long before they let her get dressed again, then told her she would be spending the night in the hospital so they could observe her and make sure she didn't suffer brain damage from the oxygen deprivation, or have the petechial hemorrhaging start to bleed into her eyes. She was glad she didn't have to go back to her apartment, silent without Zeya's gentle purring, but she was also now beyond exhaustion, beyond being able to process or feel anything anymore, and when they offered her an aspirin with a light sedative to help her sleep, she took it and gratefully allowed the gentle darkness to take her away from the horrific events of the last few days.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

It was déjà vu all over again as she opened her eyes and saw her father sitting beside her bed.

He was scrolling down the screen on his cell phone as she opened her eyes, and for a moment she just lay quietly, trying to wake up all the way. The 'light sedative' obviously wasn't that light, not for her, who had always been sensitive to medications, and she still felt groggy.

Then her father reached up and handed the phone across the bed to someone, and as he did so, he noticed she was awake. "Hi, Kitten," he said quietly, standing. "Didn't know you were awake."

She managed to find the strength to reach up to hug him. The sedative was making her arms feel leaden, and she was still drowsy. "Hi Dad," she managed.

He hugged her back, and she felt the tightness in his squeeze. "You got to quit makin' your old man's heart stop, Kitten," he said gruffly, but his voice was gentle and his eyes weren't quite dry. "Every time I hear John's voice on the phone now I know something's happened to you."

"John?" she asked quickly, turning her head. And there, in the chair on the other side of her bed, John was sitting, holding her father's phone. "John!"

He handed the phone back to her father as Dad sat down, and reached down to hug her. "Hi, Iris," he said, and his voice was husky and thick as he disengaged and reached for a Styrofoam cup with a straw in it. "Here. Ice water. It'll make your throat feel better." He held the cup for her to sip, and he was right, her sore throat did feel better.

She was irrationally pleased that he was here when she woke, although she looked sternly at him when he put the cup down. "You shouldn't be here."

"I couldn't stay away this time. And I didn't have to. IAB Agent Turner asked me to come here and make sure you were all right, get your statement on what happened. We both know what happened, and I suspect she knows I know, but she's giving us a chance to coordinate cover stories so no one knows I was at your apartment last night."

"Last night?" Only then did she realize there was weak sunlight filtering in between the blinds of her hospital room. "How long have I been out?"

"It's about seven in the morning," Dad said, leaning forward in his chair. "John called me once you were in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and told me where you were and where you were going. He went to the precinct to make sure Simon was tucked away in a cell and couldn't come after you again, then he reported to that IAB agent. She told him to come here and make sure you were okay. I met him here and we've been having a talk." A deep breath. "Kitten—Iris—you never told me about this."

Tears filled Iris's eyes at the softly accusing note in her father's voice. "I didn't want you to know, Dad," she choked. "You and Uncle Jake were such good friends—he was really broken up at Kevin's funeral, and so were you and Ian, Neall, Roddy and Quinn. It was like you lost a son, and my brothers acted like they'd lost a brother. I…I couldn't tell you. I didn't want you to hate him, and…I was afraid you'd all think I was lying."

"Kitten…" Dad was crying now. "I would never, ever think you were lying about something that serious. You've never lied to me. Not even when you were a little girl and you and Roddy decided to hide Quinn in the dry well and forgot he was there. You owned up immediately. I always told you no matter what you did, you'd only get in serious trouble if you lied to me."

"And I only did once." Iris smiled through her tears. "You took me out back behind the shed and tanned my hide. I never did it again." She sobered. "I just…I guess I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't even know how to talk about it. I didn't even remember a whole lot about that night, it was really fuzzy, bits and pieces. I don't even remember if I ever said no."

"You did." John spoke, his voice soft but with a hint of steel in it. "You did. Multiple times. And they all ignored you. Even Kevin." His voice dripped disgust and loathing. "The only reason he kept Simon from hitting you was because if he did it would leave marks and marks meant they'd be discovered. I can't imagine how he could have done that."

Tears spilled down Iris's cheeks again, and Dad saw it. "Stop it," he said with some asperity, standing up to hug Iris again, looking sternly at John. "This conversation is over. We're not discussing this right now. Too raw and too fresh. Don't want to get Kitten upset again."

"Dad, I keep telling you not to call me that," Iris said with a watery smile as Dad sat back down in his chair.

"Why not? I think it fits you." There was a glint of humor in the depths of John's eyes.

Dad laughed. "It does. I remember when she was about three, her second-oldest brother Neall sneaked up on her when they were down by the river fishing, and he gave her a shove. In she went. When she came out she was hissing and spitting like a cat who'd just gotten dunked. I started calling her 'Kitten' after that and it stuck."

"Well, Neall and Roddy stopped calling me that after about the fourth time I beat them up. Quinn and Ian never did call me that, so I didn't have to beat them up."

"That's because Ian was too dignified to stoop to calling anyone baby names, and Quinn just adored you. You were, after all, his big sister." He laughed. "And I think he was afraid you'd beat him up too. You always were the strongest one in the family." He turned to John. "Ian is the oldest, he's very quiet, very reserved, very dignified. Neall was a year and a half younger than Ian, rambunctious and rowdy, and Roddy's a year younger than Neall but had the same attitude. Then Iris came along, and she was bossy and demanding, headstrong and strong-willed enough for both her and Quinn, who came along two years later. Quinn's very much a shy bookworm."

He laughed suddenly. "Quinn was in fifth grade and he was getting teased by one of the boys in his class. Iris was in seventh, and they were at the same school, and she heard about it. One day when they were all coming out of school that boy grabbed Quinn's backpack and spilled all his books and papers in the mud. Iris pounded on him until the teachers came and broke it up. My wife got to the school to pick up our wayward children at the same time the other boy's father came to get him. Iris jumped him right outside the school door and shoved him in the mud again."

"Dad!" Iris was red with embarrassment.

John looked at her, and she could see the amusement in his eyes. "A born fighter."

"Yeah, the other boy walked off with his father yelling at him about having his ass handed to him by a girl. But he never bothered Quinn or Iris again." Dad stood. "The nurses are going to be by to send you home, so I'll let John take over fussing over you for a bit." He turned to John. "It's Neall's birthday next month, first Thursday; if you and Iris can make it, I'd like both of you to come up to Westchester for a family barbecue. The boys'll have to meet you and give you some tips on how to live with Iris. You're going to need it."

"Dad!" Iris blushed scarlet.

John grinned and held out his hand. "I'd like that, Mr. Campbell."

"Call me Ross. None of that 'Mister' business. Make me feel like an old man." He took John's hand, shook it.

"I'll be there. With Iris." John turned to Iris as the door closed behind her father. "He reminds me of my Dad."

_Maybe someday you'll get to call him 'Dad' too_, was on the tip of Iris's tongue, but she stopped herself just in time, blinking in surprise. Did she like—no, love—John that much? Could she see herself married to him?

The answer her heart gave her, much to her surprise, was 'yes'.

_You don't even know him,_ scolded a voice in the back of her mind, but she hushed it. It was true, she didn't know about his past, his secrets; but she knew him, knew who he was all the way deep inside, and that was who she'd fallen in love with.

_You don't know how he feels about you. Sure, he cares about you. But he can't love you the way you love him. He's had that. With Jessica. And he cared very, very deeply about Joss Carter. You're not like them; you're not tough like them, strong like them. He's never going to love you the way he loved Jessica, and he can't care about you the way he cared about Joss._

True. He was never going to love her the way he'd loved Jessica Arndt and Joss Carter. But maybe, if she was very, very lucky, maybe someday he'd trust her enough to let her in. Maybe she was a fool for loving someone who couldn't love her back, but she didn't really care. She'd be a poorer person if she'd never met John.

She started to push the covers back, to climb out of bed, and John was beside her instantly, letting her lean on his arm as she got to her feet. "Thanks," she said quietly, only now noticing how sore her throat was from having been nearly strangled by Simon Carter

"It's hard to be strong when there's no one to lean on," he said quietly, and as she vanished into the bathroom and closed the door, she wondered if he was really thinking of her, or of himself.

_Oh John. Can you care enough about me to let me be the person you lean on?_


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"I know where we're going," Iris said when she opened her door and saw John in track pants, holding a dog leash. "Though when you called me late last night and asked me if I had plans for my day off, this isn't what I thought I'd be doing."

He smiled at her, but there was something else, something indecipherable, in his smile. "Yes, we're going to the shelter. Trust me, you'll be glad you did."

"What do you know that I don't?" It was a question that had bugged her since John had called her late last night and asked if she could arrange to take today off work. She'd already had the day off, so it wasn't a chore, but she'd wondered all night why he'd asked her that question.

She pestered him all the way there with questions, all of which he steadfastly refused to answer, saying only, "You'll see when we get there." Which just drove her even crazier. And he knew it, damn him, because there was amusement layered over top of that indecipherable something in the back of his eyes.

"Iris!" Frank walked back into his office as they were both signing in. "Didn't expect to see you here! I was going to email you as soon as I had the chance, but it looks like I don't have to now. Thanks for saving my old fingers the chore."

"You're not that old," Iris said, then her curiosity got the better of her. "Why were you going to email me?"

"AEOs got a call from the NYPD last night. Officers responded to a report of gunshots, and when they got there they found that Coke—Snow's – owner had been shot in a drug buy gone bad. He's dead, and they brought her back in."

"Snow…is back?" Iris stood dumbfounded for a moment. Then, on a sudden hunch, she turned to John, and what she saw in his face startled her. Not his reaction, but the total lack of it—as if he'd known Snow would be back at the shelter today.

And the moment she saw his face, she knew that was why he'd called her last night. Somehow, he'd known that Snow would be back and he'd made sure she would be able to see the dog. She had a million questions to ask him, but they would have to wait. First things first. "I have to see her."

"She's back in the quarantine room. She's not as shy as she was when she came here the first time, but she's very, very confused now. AEO reports said they found her in a kennel in the basement of the house—slightly larger than the one she grew up in, but not by much, still not enough room for her to turn and lie down comfortably in." Whatever else he was going to say was lost as Iris pushed the doors open and flew almost at a dead run toward the quarantine room at the back of the shelter, John following behind her.

"You knew," she said accusingly to John. "You knew and you didn't tell me! That's why you called me last night!" She stopped running. "How did you know?"

"I used to work Narcotics," he said simply. "Still knew a few people."

She sensed there was more to it than that—a lot more. But she didn't have time to spare right now to reflect; she had to see Snow.

And there, in the last kennel at the back of the room, Snow lay on the dog bed, head down, looking very forlorn and sad. But she recognized Iris when Iris opened the kennel door, and came forward eagerly, whining. When John came in behind Iris, she sniffed at his hand eagerly and wagged her tail. When they both sat down on the floor, she was beside herself with joy, climbing right into Iris's lap and settling down immediately, closing her eyes in bliss as Iris petted her head. Iris found her eyes tearing up as she stroked Snow. "I miss Zeya."

John was silent, petting Snow intermittently as he watched Iris and Snow together.

She didn't know how long they sat there like that in the quiet room; but all of a sudden, the door opened and several voices intruded on the quiet. "There's nowhere else, we have to put them in here," said one voice. And then the owner of that voice turned the corner and saw Iris, John, and Snow in the last run; Snow, reacting badly to the noise and bustle, was pressed up against Iris, whimpering softly. "Oh no, we forgot about that one."

"Forgot about what? What's going on?" Iris asked.

"Animal Enforcement Officers just busted a massive dogfighting operation and puppy mill. We have twelve adult male dogs, about half of which are aggressive fighting dogs; four breeding females, two with litters of six and four puppies each; and sixteen puppies between two and eight months old, all coming in eight AEO vehicles. We need every available cage to hold all of them until the Hearing Board can decide on their fate; and you know what that means."

"You can't. Not Snow!" Iris sounded panicked, while John looked on uncomprehendingly.

"We need every available cage. You know that. And this one is one of the ones we're probably not going to be able to adopt out because of her special needs."

Iris stared at John, stricken, and his incomprehension changed to a look of dawning understanding. "They're going to euthanize Snow?" he looked shocked.

"They…they need the space…" She turned to the man who had spoken. "If I offer to foster her, take her home with me…will that save her life? She won't be taking up needed space here at the shelter, and my cat recently…died…and I don't have any other animals."

"I don't see why you couldn't," said a familiar voice, and Frank turned the corner carrying a small animal carrier in each hand. "It will solve all our problems. But you're going to have to take her now…oh, wait," he said. "If we can set up a kennel in my office, she can stay there while you help us unload the dogs coming in." He looked John up and down appraisingly. "We're going to need some strong volunteers for the bigger dogs."

It took less than fifteen minutes to set up a large dog crate on the floor of Frank's office; Snow climbed into it with far more willingness than John would have thought possible, and iris closed the door, pulled a blanket over the cage, and led John out to the back of the shelter.

The next hour was one John would never forget. Eight vans marked 'Animal Control' pulled up, one by one, in front of the doors; volunteers, he and Iris among them, helped carry plastic pet carriers with tiny week old puppies in them to an empty dog run, put the puppies on clean blankets as the mother dogs were put in runs next to the puppies. Only after all the puppies belonging to a single mother were together in one run did the volunteers step out, close the kennel doors, and another door in between the dog runs was opened. The mother dogs rushed in to sniff their puppies, making sure all their babes were there, and then settle in to nurse them.

Then the half-grown puppies came next; Iris took the younger, smaller pups while John was drafted into helping with the older, bigger ones; one pup, a massive Cane Corso mix who was still four months old but had paws the size of dinner plates, took all of John's strength to wrestle into an extra-large dog run. Then they all stood back and watched as the last few vans pulled in with the male adult fighting dogs. John looked like he was about to protest when he saw a big, burly AEO get out of one van holding a long catchpole; but Iris saw understanding dawn in his eyes when they brought the first dog out. A heavily scarred head and mad, red eyes surrounded a mouth full of teeth and slavering jaws; he snarled, growled, and fought the AEOs every step of the way, and it took two of them to wrestle him into the door and into the quarantine room.

"That dog isn't safe around people. He needs to be euthanized," John said quietly to Iris as they watched.

"He isn't safe, and he probably will. But it's not his fault, John, he is what we humans made him to be. Dogs are pack animals, social creatures. It takes a lot of abuse and neglect and negative conditioning to make them behave that way. That dog's parents were probably chosen to breed because they were both hyper-aggressive; that resulted in a puppy with an enlarged adrenal gland and a tendency toward aggression. Dogs like him are separated from their mothers soon after birth, before she had time to teach him how to behave around other dogs and humans; then whoever his owner was hurt him, kicked him, starved him to make him more aggressive and hostile, then injected him with massive amounts of hormones and steroids. That mix basically drives a dog insane. So it's not the dog's fault that it's aggressive; it's the owner's fault for making him what he is. And now the dog will be put to sleep." She turned away. "Come on. Let's take Snow home. Do you have enough room in your car for that kennel?"


	30. Chapter 30

He watched silently as she used a pair of pliers to bend back the wire comprising the hinges on the gate of the dog kennel to remove the door. She knew he didn't understand what she was doing, but she didn't explain right away; she wanted to see if he would figure it out for himself.

But he waited until she had tucked some old clothes that didn't fit her anymore into the crate, then covered the top of the crate with a large beach towel. That done, she stood back and watched as Snow walked up to it, sniffed gingerly, then climbed in. This kennel was large enough for the dog to be able to turn around comfortably, and Iris could almost hear a happy sigh of content as Snow made herself comfortable inside. Only then did John speak. "Iris, I don't understand. As much as you love animals and dogs, why would you put her in a cage again?"

Yep, he really was that dense. She sat down on the edge of her bed, patted the mattress beside her in an unspoken invitation for him to join her; which he did while they watched Snow push Iris's old clothing around the floor of the crate until she'd made a soft nest for herself. "She grew up in a crate, John. It's familiar. It wasn't good for her, but she doesn't know that. All of a sudden everything that was familiar to her is gone; she was very confused going to the shelter the first time, only to be returned to her owner, then to end up back at the shelter again…the only thing familiar to her right now is a crate. So she's going to hang onto that." She watched Snow get up, turn around once again, and lie back down. "She's going to spend a lot of the next few weeks, maybe even a month, in that crate. But I took the door off, and she's going to realize gradually that she has the freedom to come and go whenever she pleases. As my apartment becomes familiar, she's going to settle into that and use the crate less and less, until finally one day she'll avoid it altogether because she doesn't need it anymore." She waited for John to digest that, then said quietly. "Pretty much the same thing I'm doing with you."

"Me?" he turned to her, looking startled. "I didn't grow up in a cage!"

"Yes, you did," she said, meeting his eyes with her own, holding his gaze with hers. "John, you don't see it, but I can. All the choices you've made in your life, the career you picked, the decisions you made about who you'd call an employer, those have all placed demands on you. Those decisions demanded that you put on a front of a cold, callous killer, an assassin who kills without conscience, without compassion. When I see you out on the street—like that incident with Silva outside the precinct—that's who I see. The night I came over and your friend Harold was here—that's who was here when I walked in. The very first morning I walked into my office and found you already there trying to manipulate me with a cup of coffee—that was who I saw then.

"But I knew that wasn't you as soon as I picked up that coffee. That might be the front you put on, but that isn't _you_. Your life circumstances have force you to create that shell as a cage for your real self—the warm, funny, caring, compassionate man I've been honored to come to know over the last half year. The man who plays chess in the park with a lonely old veteran dying of cancer. The man who sensed that his best friend needed a companion and so manipulated Harold into accepting Bear as a companion and therapy dog. The man who ran to my rescue in a parking garage after seeing me getting the shit beaten out of me by another officer. The man who insisted on coming over to my apartment and spending the night because he thought my 'number was up' from Simon Carter. The man who says good morning to me in the lobby of the Oh-Eight even though there's an unwritten rule about cops talking to shrinks in public." A slight smile. "The man who checked my social media page after I told you the Department had scheduled you for counseling with me, found out I like caramel creamer in my coffee, and put caramel creamer in the cup you brought me the first time I met you."

"I was trying to manipulate you into signing off on my evaluation. You were a nuisance I wanted to be rid of."

"That was your purpose in buying the coffee, yes. But only someone who cared on another, deeper level would have bothered trying to find out how I took my coffee and would bring exactly what I would have ordered. I'll bet the first time you ever brought Harold a beverage, you surprised him by bringing him exactly what he would have ordered himself, even though he'd never told you what he liked."

"Sencha Green tea. Harold isn't a coffee drinker." John's lips twitched in a fond smile.

She nodded. "The shell you put on, the cold uncaring assassin façade, is a cage for the real you. That first session in my office, I realized that—and that was the moment I took the door off your cage." He looked at her questioningly and she sighed. God, he really was that dense. "You walked into that session looking for clues to what I wanted to see in you. You're very, very good at reading people, and you become a chameleon, an actor who quickly understands what people want to see in you and you make yourself conform to those expectations. That first session, I dressed you down for trying to be manipulative. I made it clear to you that I didn't want to see that person, but I didn't give you any clues to who, or what, I expected, to see. That opened the door in your emotional cage. You reverted to being yourself, a default setting, so to speak, because there were no other clues available."

She reached up with both hands, cupping his face in her palms. "John, you're not all that different from Snow. But it's not your physical body that's stunted, it's your mind, your emotions. You've spent so much of your life pretending to be someone else, someone different, for everyone around you that you've forgotten who you really are. You spent so much time pretending to be a monster that when you look in the mirror now, you see a monster. You automatically assumed I was afraid of you because on some level, you're afraid of yourself. Even now when I've told you I'm not afraid of you, you still worry that something you'll say, someday, will make me see the 'monster' you think you are. You don't see yourself the way I see you—you don't see the person you are inside, the person I see when I look at you.

"I can't make you see that person. I can't force you to see yourself as I see you. The only thing I can do is keep that door in your emotional cage open, even if it's only open when you're with me, to let more of the real you out until someday you realize that being yourself is more important than meeting the expectations of everyone around you. And the day you understand that will be the day you realize you, like Snow, no longer need that cage. And you'll never walk into it again." She had to swallow hard. "I want to be there for you while you do this. I want to see more and more of you, every day. I want to help you to see who you really are inside. I want to help you understand you don't need that cage. And someday when you realize you don't need that cage anymore—that is what I want, more than anything else in the world." Her eyes misted. "I love you, John."

His eyes weren't quite dry as he looked into her eyes, blue eyes full of honest, open emotion. "Iris. I can't promise you I'll ever be able to meet all your expectations. I can't promise that I will be able to let go of the shell. But Iris, I can promise that, for you, I'll try."

"That's all I ask." She leaned in those last few inches, kissed him. Tender emotion, not a kiss of heat and lust; and when he pushed gently on her shoulders and laid her down on the bed, the gentleness and caring in his touch was full of the softer emotions she knew he rarely let himself feel. And when their bodies finally joined, she felt the intensity in him, an unspoken desire to keep the promise he'd made.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

"Wow." Was John's first words as he got out of the car.

They'd taken his '67 GTO to her father's house in Westchester County because she'd insisted it was bigger and they'd be more comfortable. And he had to admit she was right as they'd flown along winding roads in the more rural areas of New York State until, an hour after leaving New York City, they'd reached Dad's place.

Iris grinned happily as she climbed out of the passenger side of the car. As much as she'd enjoyed the drive up, it was nice to be back here where she'd grown up. "Yeah, it's beautiful. I'm really lucky it's not that far from New York and whenever I start feeling homesick, it's only an hour between here and there."

Still staring around him, John turned slowly. "How much of this is your father's?" he asked finally.

"Eight acres." She pointed across the dirt road that served as a driveway to the house. "There's the farmhouse where we all grew up." She turned to the northwest, pointed. "There's an old barn with a paddock that Mom used to board people's horses and kept some chickens and a goat. Three acres of it is wooded, that's where Ian, Neall, Roddy, Quinn and I used to play; there are dirt roads running through one acre of it for our ATVs and dirt bikes; the other two acres are kept wild because Dad and Neall and Roddy and I like to hunt in fall. And whenever we get together for family gatherings, we end up playing paintball in the woods. And there's a small pond on the other side of the woods where we used to swim and catch frogs."

"Quite the tomboy, weren't you." John looked at her, eyes twinkling with amusement, then returned his attention to the land around them. "You know, back when I was in the military, I always thought I'd like to someday retire and buy some land like this. I wanted it to be in the mountains somewhere."

She swatted him slightly. "You're not an old man yet. There's still time for you to do some of the things you want to do. Don't give yourself tunnel vision." She broke off as she heard a door slam, and then raced forward with a bright light in her eyes. "Dad!"

"Kitten!" Ross Campbell opened his arms as his daughter flew into them. "Welcome home, Kitten. I'm glad you could come." Then he saw John, and his smile was no less broad as he held out a hand. "Glad to see you could come too. I was worried you'd change your mind at the last minute."

"I nearly did," John said honestly. "But Iris can be…pretty persuasive."

Iris grinned. "I swiped his car keys while he was asleep and refused to give them back. He had to put up with me driving his car about halfway here." And he'd grouched and grumped and complained the whole time.

She'd loved it. And, she suspected, so had he. She got the feeling he didn't have 'normal' moments like this often.

"That's a mean thing to do to a man, Kitten," Ross chided Iris. "But I'm glad you both could come."

"Iris!" Came another shout, and John blinked as a bear of a man came barreling toward them, wrapping his arms around Iris in a literal bear hug. The red hair, so much like Iris's, instantly marked him as one of her brothers, but he was so much taller than Iris that John thought he was older until Iris laughed and said "Come on, little brother, you can't hug all the air out of me!"

"Little?" John blinked as the behemoth turned to him and held out a huge beefy palm.

"I'm Quinn. Five out of five, dontcha know, the baby of the family. Two years younger than Big Sis and she never lets me forget it."

"Some baby," John said without thinking.

Quinn threw his head back and roared in laughter, foregoing the formal handshake in favor of slapping John's back. "Got some spunk in you, hmm?"' he chuckled. "You're gonna need it if you're going to deal with Big Sis."

"Come on in and meet the family." Ross said after a rather more decorous handshake with John. "When Iris texted that both of you were definitely coming, the boys all rushed to get here so they could meet you."

The inside of the house was spacious yet homey, simply decorated but still inviting. It seemed very much like a man's home, sparsely furnished with plenty of space, none of the useless bric-a-brac that people liked to clutter their homes with. A gun rack over the fireplace held a couple of antique rifles that John instinctively knew would still work; the fireplace itself was made of large slate slabs cemented together; the furniture was all solid wood, looked like it had been well-used and loved and cared for through a great many years.

"The house was my father's. And his father's before that. It's been in the Campbell family for about four generations. I grew up here, and iris grew up here too. Great-great-grandfather Campbell started out with just a small log house and one acre of land in the early 1900's, and each generation's taken it on themselves to buy neighboring parcels until now we have eight acres. I'm looking at adding another half-acre in about five years."

"It's a wonderful place, Mr. Campbell—Ross," John amended quickly, and Iris could tell from the tone of his voice that he loved the place. "I always thought I'd want a place like this for myself once I retired from the military."

"You're ex-military?" Ross asked casually as he led the way through the living room to the dining room, where three more men sat.

"Army. Special Forces." John said.

Ross chuckled. "Knew you had to be something special to deal with my girl. Come meet the rest of the family." Iris watched John glance quickly around the room, assessing her brothers. He was very good at reading people, and Iris knew the moment he saw Ian that John knew Ian was the oldest—not the least of which was because Ian stood up from the table first, holding out a hand. "Welcome, John."

John shook Ian's hand. "Nice to meet you."

Ross waved a hand to indicate everyone sitting at the table. "Come have a seat. And help yourself to something to eat. Can we get you some coffee? I'll bet Iris dragged you out early this morning without giving you time to wake up."

John shot Iris a look of veiled amusement. "Something like that, yes."

"Feel free to make yourself a cup of coffee. Then come and have a seat." Ross pulled out a chair at the top of the table as Iris sat down at her customary seat, at the end. The table had always been roomy, even for a family of seven, and she was glad of that now as John came to the table and took the empty chair that used to be her mother's when she'd been alive.

"Okay, now that we're all here, let's get the hard stuff over with before we go on to have some fun." Ross declared as soon as John was seated.

"Dad gave us a bare-bones description of what happened in the email telling all of us to come here today for my birthday," Ian spoke directly to John, although his sidelong glance included Iris too. "I'm glad we finally learned about it, even if this was something we should have heard from her first." This time he did look directly at Iris, who blushed red.

"It's hard to talk about things like this to others," John said quickly, coming to Iris's defense. "As close as all of you were to Iris's fiancé, I can't blame her for being unwilling to talk about it. And you shouldn't blame her either."

"But we know about it now. And Kevin's long gone. So's Dad's old partner Josh Holloway. So there's nothing preventing you from telling us about it now." Ian looked at Iris expectantly.

Iris blinked. "It's…there's nothing to talk about," she said quickly. "It happened, and it's over. Simon's in jail for attempted murder and the NYPD is rounding up everyone who was in his little club. So there's no need to talk about it."

"Iris," John said quietly. "This is your family. They have a right to know what happened. That was why I called your Dad the night Simon tried to kill you and told him. Some secrets you have to keep, but some things, like this, you need to let out."

"Not to my family," Iris protested.

"Yes," John said gently but firmly. "To your family, most of all. They need to know this. You never 'get over' something like this, but you need support from your friends and family to learn to live with what happened. But they can't support and help you if they don't know what happened." He cleared his throat. "I'll start." And, turning to the rest of the table, he told them what had happened from the time Andy Bowers had assaulted her in the garage to the moment Iris had killed Simon Carter in her apartment.

And once he finished speaking, it was easier for Iris to simply fill in what he didn't know. She was immensely grateful for his willingness to start the conversation; she couldn't even look at her brothers, her family, as she spoke in a flat, toneless voice, describing what she now knew about that night, even though she still didn't remember most of it—and, she now realized, never would. It was hard to speak around the lump in her throat, and the only thing that helped her get through it was speaking of the entire incident as if it had been someone else on that video John's friend Harold had dug up. It helped that she didn't remember most of it; and when John's hand crept across the table, coming up to cover her tightly-folded hands in a silent gesture of support, she welcomed the warm reassurance in his blue eyes.

There was silence in the dining room when she finished, as her brothers absorbed Iris and John's narrative. It was Quinn who spoke first. "Thank you, John," he said quietly. "This had to have been hard on you too."

"Not as hard as it was on Iris. And she dealt with this alone for almost eight years."

Ian stirred in his chair. "I wish you had told us about this before, Iris. We're family. You should never have been afraid to tell us anything."

"I…I didn't know how. He was…like another brother to you. To all of you. And…I didn't know why he did what he did. I…didn't even consciously remember what happened. How could I tell you what happened when I didn't even know myself?" Iris felt a lump rise in her throat, tried unsuccessfully to swallow it down, and heard her voice break on the last word.

John slid his chair around the end of the table until he was beside her, and reached an arm out to hug her gently. "It's okay, Iris." And she gave in, leaned against him, and buried her face in his shoulder, not caring what her father or brothers or John was going to think of her. _It's hard to be strong when there's no one to lean on_. But his being there for her helped. She didn't cry—she'd done enough of that in the last month—but being able to hide from everyone while she got herself together was a blessing.

Ross finally broke the silence. "As much as I wish Iris had told us about this when it first happened, as much as I wish she'd felt she could trust her family to help her through this, in the end, I'm glad she did find someone she felt she could tell her secrets to. And I'm glad you had the sense to tell us." He nodded briefly to John. "Welcome to the family, John," he said as Iris pulled herself together and straightened in her chair. John's hand remained covering hers, though, and she was touched at the gesture of unspoken support.

"Thank you, John." "Welcome, John." A chorus of similar sentiment joined Ian's from around the table, followed thereafter by Ross clearing his throat.

"All right, family meeting over. Now that we're all up to speed on what happened, it'll be up to Iris to decide if she wants to talk about it again. At least we know now. Now, what are we going to do for the rest of the day?"

"Paintball!" Roddy piped up, his eyes brightening. "And then we can go into town and catch a movie before hitting the grocery store and come back here for the evening barbecue."

"Roddy, we always play paintball," Iris groaned.

Ross grinned at Ian. "Since it's your birthday, you should pick," he said.

Ian thought for a moment. "Just this once, I'm going to agree with Roddy. Paintball." He grinned at John. "I get the feeling John's great playing in a paintball war."

"I've never played paintball," John grinned. "But I've heard of it."

"And we have a big enough family to have a decent game. A short one, but a decent one. Then we'll go catch a movie and have a backyard barbecue." Ian nodded decisively. "Do we have enough equipment for John also?"

Ross nodded. "I thought that was what we'd end up doing, so I got some more over the last week. John has his own paintball gun and equipment and paintballs."

"So what are we waiting for? Let's go!"


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

"Here. You put it on like this." Iris took two of the straps around the padded vest John was awkwardly trying to put on and snapped them together in the right places, then adjusted said straps until they were snug around John's torso. "It can't be that different from strapping on military gear."

"It's not. But some things aren't where I'm used to them being." John tugged down the hem and rolled his shoulders, settling the vest securely around his upper body, then looked askance down at himself. "Is all of this really necessary?"

"It is. Trust me, it is. Getting hit by a paintball hurts like a wicked bitch. Leaves bruises for a week. Yes, the padding is necessary." She picked up the paintball gun and the ammo pouch. "There. Dad explained all the rules, right?"

"Pretty simple." John shrugged. "Not rocket science."

Iris giggled. "Don't tell Ian that. He's got a Ph.D in biochemistry and still had trouble getting the rules of the game down when Dad first taught us how to play when we turned thirteen."

John grinned. "Ian reminds me a little bit of Harold. Even if Harold weren't disabled, he still wouldn't like this sort of war game."

"Unlike you," Iris retorted. "I've never seen you this happy." She smiled fondly at him. "You're going to love this. It's a chance to use those military skills you've acquired, but in a non-lethal setting." She patted his shoulder. "Just don't get too carried away. It's supposed to be fun." She thought for a moment. "Although some of my brothers do get carried away. Neall probably would have gone into the military if the police department hadn't accepted him; right now he's captain of the SWAT unit in Buffalo. So watch out for him. He brags about his SWAT training and how good he is; I'm positive you're better. If you can take him out of the game early, you'll deflate his ego a bit and make it easier for the rest of us."

At just that moment, Roddy poked his head in. "Iris! You traitor! Betraying family secrets?"

Iris rolled her eyes. "Nope. Dad said John's part of the family now, so I'm just…getting John up to speed. Giving him intel on potential hostiles."

He laughed at that. "Fine. Just don't take too long, we're about to start." He vanished.

John looked at Iris. "Part of the family?"

"Dad said it. So you are. You're now part of the Campbell clan. This is now your home too, and you can consider yourself invited to every birthday party, family gathering, holiday and special occasion. If we need somewhere to get away, this is where we all come. Dad's door is always open. And now that includes you, too." She smiled gently. "I realize you haven't had much of a family for most of your life, John, so this will take some getting used to. But you have a family now. Us. We're here for you." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "I'm here for you."

The kiss deepened, lengthened. When they parted, John's blue eyes had darkened to sapphire. "Do we have to go? Can't we find somewhere quiet…"

And at just that moment, Ross hollered from the hallway, "Come on, you two lovebirds! Time to get under way!"

Iris made a rueful face as she and John started chuckling. "Maybe later. Come on, Dad's waiting."

They each had walkie-talkies for a reason, and Iris wasn't too surprised to hear, about fifteen minutes into the game, that John had taken her advice and taken Neall out. It was going to rankle; usually Iris was the first one out, and it was usually Neall's doing. She'd finally gotten him back, albeit in a roundabout way. _He'll get over it. He'll smart for a while, then he'll think about it, and then next time we do this he's going to ask for a team game so he can learn from John. God help the rest of us, because those two together will be unbeatable. _

She got Ian with a lucky shot around a tree trunk next; he looked at her ruefully but headed back toward the house, per the game's rules; so that left her, John, Roddy and Quinn. She was just wondering if she should go after Quinn first, or Roddy, when she rounded a tree by the pond and saw John stuck in a web of ropes around the smooth, broad trunk of an ancient birch tree. "John?"

He looked up and cursed under his breath. "I should have seen it. I tripped a rope trap."

She pointed her paintball gun at him as he waited in hopeless resignation, but some perverse imp of mischief made her put her gun down. John shook his head as she walked up to him. "Can't hit an unarmed man, Iris? I like the honor, but that kind of thinking can get you killed in a combat situation. You need to eliminate enemies as quickly as possible."

She surveyed him, hands on her hips. "There are more ways than one to eliminate an enemy, John." A merrily wicked smile twitched her lips, and she could tell from John's suddenly apprehensive look that he'd just figured out he was in trouble.

She shucked her vest to give her more mobility, then strolled the last few steps toward him. "I forgot to warn you. Roddy does this sort of thing all the time. Sets rope traps to pin one of us to a tree so he can come finish us off at his leisure. I've learned over the years which trees he likes and will steer clear of them, but I forgot to warn you."

"I'll consider myself warned." John looked down at the ropes. "Now if, you'll just help me—I think this one knot over here is the key to undoing the whole thing…"

Iris knew perfectly well which one he was talking about. She'd been on the receiving end of Roddy's traps too many times not to know how he constructed the things. But this particular trap had left John's arms and hands pinned while his lower body was free, and she grinned in predatory delight as she leaned in to kiss him. "I don't think I'll let you out just yet. I think I like…the possibilities."

His breath caught in his throat. His eyes darkened with desire. When he kissed her back, there was anticipation and eagerness in it. "Let me out of this…and we'll explore those possibilities."

"Oh no. I want to explore the possibilities of having you just like this." She captured his mouth with hers, distracted him with a kiss even as her hands wandered lower. The vest came to his waist, leaving his belt and the waistband of his jeans in easy reach.

He gasped involuntarily into her mouth as she unzipped and lowered his jeans and boxers just low enough to free him from the confines of the cloth. He was already getting hard; she kept her lips locked with his as she stroked him, feeling him stiffen, feeling him twitch and gasp when she found sensitive spots.

"Now don't make a sound. We wouldn't want Roddy or Quinn to come find us here." With that deliciously wicked command, she left his lips and applied her mouth to an entirely different part of him. It was funny, the first time she'd done this to him, she'd felt revulsion, and hadn't understood why. Then she'd seen the video, and for a couple of days afterward, she'd wanted to retch at the thought of having a man in her mouth. But…being with John was different; she found she enjoyed doing…this…to him. Because he was normally so cool and in control, she treasured the times when she could make him lose that control, make him put aside all thought and calculation and logic, and just lose himself in pure physical sensation.

He was trying to obey her; she could feel the coiled tension in his body as she struggled not to make a sound even though what she was doing to him was driving him nuts. Faint soft gasps still escaped his lips, though; low groans of sexual tension filled her ears, though she was positive that no one else would be able to hear him; even the birds in the nearby trees chirped undisturbed. She continued working on him with lips, tongue, and very, very gentle nips with her teeth, feeling her own excitement rise with every gasp she managed to wring from him. Finally she stepped back.

"Iris..." he glared at her with hunger, arousal, lust, in his eyes. "You can't leave me like this…" He didn't beg; he would never beg. She would never force him to; she never wanted to break him like that. But the 'please' hung unspoken in the air, and that tree did lean, rather temptingly, backward at just the right angle…

She'd already taken her vest off, so it was a matter of minutes to drop her own slacks. All of John's breath escaped him in a hiss of sexual tension, frustration, and lust as she rose on tiptoe and sheathed him inside her. Then she stopped thinking, stopped analyzing, as she rode him, as she drove both of them toward that indescribable peak. She barely noticed when his hands came up to slide under her shirt, push her cotton exercise bra up until he could cup her bare breasts, and then they both came together, explosively.

It was a couple of minutes before she could catch her breath, and when she did she realized his hands were still playing with her breasts. "How did you…" she looked into his eyes. "You weren't really stuck."

"No."

"You could have gotten yourself out of that rope trap on your own. Whenever you wanted to."

He grinned at her. "Yes."

She grinned back. "Sneaky son of a bitch."

He raised an eyebrow, not at all fazed by her language. "Would have ruined your fun if I had."

"And yours. Admit, it, John. You enjoy, occasionally, being the one out of control, giving up control to someone else."

"Yes. But if you tell anyone, I'll disavow any knowledge of it." He grinned as she got off him and watched as he shrugged easily out of the rest of the ropes and buttoned himself back up.

"I'm a therapist, John. I can keep secrets."

"So can I." He kissed her.

And that was when a bright blossom of red bloomed on the back of his vest.

Iris brought her paintball gun up and fired at Quinn, who stared in befuddlement at the bright yellow splotch on his vest before looking up to see Iris standing there smugly, the winner of that day's paintball game.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

"Well, that's got to be a first," Ross drawled when his five kids, plus John, came in the front door of the house. "I can't remember the last time Iris won one of our paintball games." He grinned at the boys. "So you know what that means." There was a chorus of groans from all the brothers; John looked mystified at Ross. "Every time we get together, we have a paintball game and then go into town to catch a movie. It's a family tradition. And the winner of the paintball game gets to pick the movie everyone goes to. I used to think my boys hunted Iris down first because they don't want her to pick a girly movie."

"I'll go see whatever she wants to see," John said. "It's not the movie that's important, it's spending time with someone you…care about."

Iris was still pondering whether she'd actually heard the slight hesitation in John's voice, or if she'd imagined it, when Neall spoke. "Iris won't pick a girly movie this time. Not with John here."

Iris glared at him, her bemusement over John's hesitation forgotten. "Why you…" then she sighed. "No, I'm not going to pick a girl movie. As it happens there's a new action movie I wanted to see…" and she named the newest box office blockbuster in theaters. "I've been wanting to see it, but I've been too busy. This would be the perfect time to see it."

"See? I told you she'd pick a guy movie, with John here," Neall snickered, and then ducked the swat Iris aimed in his direction. "Thanks John."

"Enough out of you," Ross said with mock annoyance at his second son. "All right. I'm sure we'd all like to clean up after the paintball. Iris, you can use the master bath. Did you bring extra clothes, John?" he asked.

John started to shake his head no, but Iris grinned. "Yes, he's got extra clothes." She grinned even wider, unrepentantly, when John frowned at her. "I knew what we were going to do today. When I packed an extra change of clothes for myself this morning I grabbed a change of yours, too. I certainly have enough of them from the times I do your laundry." She pretended not to notice the looks her brothers exchanged at that particular revelation.

"Then it's all settled." Ross's lips quirked in a half-smile at the interchange between all of them. "You kids go wash up. We'll meet down here in an hour."

Iris rather wished that she had the guts to invite John into the shower with her, but despite her father's obvious matchmaking, she didn't think it would extend that far. And she also knew she and John would both be late getting downstairs if she did…and that would make everyone frown.

She dropped the extra change of John's clothes in the guest bedroom while he was taking his turn in the main bathroom; then she washed herself up quickly in the master bathroom that used to belong to her mother and father, resisting the urge to linger; the quickie in the woods had only banked the fire, not put it out. _Just like a giddy schoolgirl, I can't seem to keep my hands off him…_

She was still thinking about it when she dried off and reached for her clothes, but a sudden thought arrested her. Every time John saw her, she was either in one of her work suits or wearing muddy, grungy clothes for the shelter. So instead of putting on the jeans and t-shirt she'd brought with her, she wrapped a towel around herself, waited until she heard no voices from the hall, then slipped from the master bedroom to her own bedroom, the one she'd had as a child, across the hall. Since she stayed in that room whenever she came to spend a night or a weekend here at home, the closet was full of clothes that did fit her, and there was something she had in mind…

And in the back of the closet she found what she was looking for, exactly where she'd last put it. A light cotton tank sundress in a soft mint green with a loose tie around the waist; light enough to be comfortable on a hot summer day, but with enough shape to be attractive. She'd spotted it in a little boutique in Greenwich Village long ago, fallen in love with it and bought it on the spot, but never had an opportunity to wear it. Now, as she slipped it over her head and yanked the tag off, she wondered if John would like it. She deliberately left most of her hair loose, only using a couple of small pins to keep a few locks from falling in her face. When she let her hair air-dry instead of blowing it dry, it would retain its natural curl, and she'd already noticed John liked playing with her hair when she let it curl naturally. He'd told her on more than one occasion that he didn't like it when she straightened her hair—and she'd already stopped adding the bottle-blond highlights she'd had when she first met him nearly six months ago now. Kevin had liked her hair lighter, but John loved her hair the way it was, and he also didn't like it when she wore a lot of makeup, so now she just added some light lip gloss before picking a pair of shoes out of the closet.

Her brothers were already done and waiting, with the exception of Ian; John was sitting in a big easy chair by the fireplace, apparently talking to Roddy about the rope trap. He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Iris walk in, did a double-take when he saw her in the dress and then couldn't seem to stop staring. Roddy nudged Neall, and both men snickered; but John was completely oblivious to them as she strolled into the family room. "Iris…you look…" he couldn't seem to find words.

"Yeah, Iris must be out to make an impression, she never wears dresses," Roddy smirked, and Iris flushed. If he'd been sitting closer to her she would have leaned over to smack him.

"Ignore them. They're your brothers. They're supposed to make fun of you." John rose from his chair, gallantly offering it to her. She blushed a little and waved him back down as she seated herself on the arm of the easy chair. He sat, but not before leaning over and brushing his lips lightly against her cheek. "You look beautiful, Iris."

"Not that bad yourself," she said happily. She'd picked his favorite pair of jeans and a polo shirt with a touch of spandex; it was loose enough to flow around him, but it molded nicely to his upper chest and arms, accentuating muscles without being restrictive or confining. She wasn't sure if he really liked it, or if he wore it because he knew she liked it, but he did look gorgeous in it. And for the hundredth time, she wondered how she'd managed to get so lucky.

Her father did a double-take when he walked into the room with Ian, both of them cleaned up, but he didn't say anything. "Ready?" he said instead to everyone in the room.

"Yeah. So ready." Quinn heaved his massive frame out of the easy chair that seemed too small to hold him. "John and Iris are so in love it would make a cat sick."

"Quinn!" Iris screeched, and pursued him as he ran for the front door, both of them followed by the sound of the rest of the family, John included, laughing at the two of them.

She'd rarely ever seen John this relaxed, and she brought it up as he drove after Roddy's car. "You're having fun today. I've rarely ever seen you this relaxed."

"I wasn't sure what to expect when you told me we'd be meeting your family. But this feels…like home. This is what I would have wanted my family to be like if I'd ever had brothers."

"And sister?" she asked without thinking.

"No. I would never feel for a sister the way I feel about you." And there was absolutely nothing resembling 'brotherly' in the look he shot her across the front seat—a look that heated her blood and reminded her that the quickie in the woods hadn't been nearly as fulfilling as her body demanded.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

She knew she was still flushed as they met her brothers outside the movie theater; they all bought tickets and then headed for the concession stand. Iris was surprised when John bought an enormous tub of popcorn; she'd never pegged him for the type. But when they settled in, John balanced the tub of popcorn between the two of them, and she took that as an invitation to share; which she did happily as the lights darkened and the screen lit up.

About fifteen minutes into the movie, she felt a large, warm hand slip just under the hem of the dress, settle on her leg just above her knee. She considered the hand for a moment, then decided _what the hell_ and she left it there, even going so far as to shift the tub of popcorn to one side so the hand could rest on her leg without its owner having to stretch.

This lasted for about five minutes.

And then she felt the hand travel further up her leg. She looked down, watching the wandering hand come to a stop at mid-thigh; then she looked at the owner of the hand. John didn't look back at her, but she could see a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

She knew that if she moved his hand, he wouldn't insist on having it there. But she also knew that not moving his hand was an open invitation for him. And as she wavered, undecided, the hand slid further up her thigh, pausing just a moment to run a fingertip gently over the scar left on her skin where she'd had surgery on the broken bones, like he did every time he hand a chance to run his hands over her legs while they were in bed together. She wasn't sure why he did it, but since the skin around the scars felt more sensitive than the scar itself, the gentle touch almost inevitably made her hotter.

This time was no exception.

His hand traveled all the way up her skirt. He couldn't reach the core of her body through her panties, but she was still aroused from their quickie in the woods earlier and her own heated imaginings were doing the rest.

And then she had an idea.

"Excuse me," she said aloud, sweetly, moving the tub of popcorn off her lap onto his. Ignoring his mystified look, she got up and threaded her way between the seats out of the darkened theater. Once outside, she followed signs to the ladies restroom, where she stepped into a stall—and stepped out of her panties. She folded them neatly and tucked it into an inner pocket of her purse, then shook out her skirt and left the ladies' room demurely. The skirt of the dress was just long enough that she wasn't worried about anyone finding out she wasn't wearing anything under the skirt.

She sat back down in her seat next to John, giving him a sweetly malicious smile that surely must have told him she was up to something, then took the popcorn from him and settled it carefully on her knee, making sure it didn't impede John's reach in any way. Barely five minutes after she'd gotten herself seated again, that hand was back, sliding under her skirt, up her thigh, rather more quickly than it had previously. She kept her eyes glued to the movie screen as the hand traveled further. Any minute now…

She felt his hand stop suddenly when he reached her inner thighs and didn't feel panties there. She could feel his bemusement, and took her eyes off the movie screen just long enough to give him a challenging, wicked smile.

A slow smile full of cheerful masculine predatory delight curved his lips, and she knew he'd gotten the message. She returned her gaze to the theater screen, but if someone had asked her what was going on, she wouldn't have been able to answer them. Firstly, because she hadn't been paying any attention to the movie for about the last forty minutes; and secondly, because that hand under her skirt was doing some absolutely deliciously wicked things to her body and she was suddenly unable to think about anything, much less form coherent words.

There was only one hand under there, but it felt like two. Or more. Fingers seemed to be everywhere at once, stroking her inner thighs at the same time they were stimulating the core of her body, and barely five minutes later she was struggling very, very hard not to moan in arousal.

He leaned in close to her, whispered into her ear. "Remember not to make a sound. Wouldn't want Roddy or Neall to turn around right now, would you?" Her two older brothers were sitting in the seats right in front of she and John, and she knew she would never, ever live it down if they turned around and saw John and their little sister making out in a movie theater like a couple of teenagers. So she struggled to bite back the heated moans of arousal, tried very hard not to wriggle in her seat. But damn it, he was too damn good at this…

And just when she thought she was going to explode, he…stopped.

She nearly gasped in frustration. Damn the man! He was going to leave her hanging…She forced herself not to glare at him, not to even look at him, focused on the popcorn and the movie and tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

That lasted maybe five minutes.

All of a sudden the hand was back, fingers tickling, teasing, driving her wild. It took even less time now than it had previously, and then, right before she would have come, he again stopped. She almost screamed in frustrated desire, damn it, she wanted to come, her body was demanding it, and that damn man was sitting there calmly watching the movie like nothing was happening! He studiously ignored her glare—but as soon as she looked back at the screen his hand was back.

She would never remember, afterward, how the movie ended. The only thing she could think about was the hand driving her wild; and, from a sidelong glimpse at John during one of the moments when he didn't have his hand under her skirt, there was a distinct bulge in his pants at his groin, and he untucked his shirt so the loose fabric would hide his…obvious interest.

Neither one of them could think about anything but each other, and as soon as the end credits started rolling, before the theater lights came on, both John and Iris were out of their seats, out of the theater. John tugged her around the corner of the building, pressed her back against the wall, and kissed her, hot and hard, his hand sliding up her skirt.

"Can't…not here…too many people…" Iris gasped breathlessly. John groaned in frustration.

"Car…" she was trying to think, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "Back road, two blocks away. Kids drive down there and make out." She didn't mention that she and Kevin had done that same thing several times.

"Lovers' lane," John said, pulling back from her almost as if it were an effort and smoothing her dress down around her hips. "Let's go."

And half an hour later she was glad they'd taken the GTO up here to Westchester. Her little Rebel didn't have nearly as much space in the back seat.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

She couldn't stop grinning as she slid into the booth of a little streetside restaurant just inside Manhattan. And neither, she noticed, could John. "This was a great idea. I've never seen you this relaxed."

"It's been a long time since I felt like I could unwind like this," John admitted as he picked up the menu. "I wasn't sure about this when you grabbed my keys this morning, but it's been a great day. I didn't think I was going to have this much fun." And then, meditatively, "You have a great family."

"They really liked you. I'm surprised. They didn't like the last guy I brought to a family gathering." She put her menu down. "But then, I guess they knew it wasn't serious. Dad said so himself. He was the first guy my brothers had seen me with since Kevin, and I wasn't serious, and neither was he, and my family didn't really like him. But they liked you."

"I've never met anyone's family before." He stared into his glass of ice water. "Jessica and I…we dated for three years, but she…she never told her family about me. I never met any of them." He looked at Iris across the table. "So now this means you have to meet my family."

"I hope I'm included in that category," came a warm but dry voice, and iris looked up as a tall, leggy gorgeous woman walked up. She grinned at John, then focused on iris. "Hi. I'm Zoe Morgan."

Two things flashed through Iris's mind at once. The first was that she'd heard the name before; this was the woman John had said he'd spend the night with occasionally—but that once he'd started seeing Iris professionally, once he realized he had feelings for her, he'd declined. The second was that it definitely hadn't been a serious relationship; Zoe Morgan was very casual in her approach, and her body language didn't evince any possessiveness toward John.

Unlike Iris's own; she knew she'd turned in her chair when Zoe came up, and it had been a slightly defensive turn; her back was angled slightly toward John and her face was toward Zoe. And she knew, from the other woman's sharp look, that Zoe hadn't missed Iris's body language cues either.

But Zoe's body language was relaxed, diffident; not challenging. Iris relaxed. She'd just established that John was hers, and Zoe had acknowledged that—subtly, but she had acknowledged it. So. There was no competition between the two of them.

However, John had said that he'd known Zoe for a while… "Come have a seat," she smiled and slid a little further over in the booth in an unspoken invitation. Zoe hesitated a moment, then smiled and slid in next to Iris.

Iris noticed, with a bit of amusement, that John was suddenly looking slightly apprehensive. She smiled and turned to Zoe. "So how do you know John?"

"We met …a while ago. I'm pretty busy, and so was he, but we managed to run into each other a couple of times. One night we were on a…stakeout…together, and well, things just happened."

Iris smiled. "Hey, perfectly understandable. After a tense situation, you need to relax, so does he, so…" she shrugged. "I've learned he's a bit more relaxed after sex. I can actually talk to him after that."

Zoe laughed. "Yeah. It lightens his mood. You'll have to learn how to do that if you're going to put up with all that brooding intensity."

"Ex_cuse_ me." John was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Iris (and Zoe, she noticed) rolled her—both their—eyes. "Shut up John," they both said at the same time. Zoe looked at her in surprise. She returned it with one of bland innocence. Then they both burst into laughter.

John sat back in his seat, the very picture of male annoyance; annoyance that only increased when Iris reached across the table and snagged his keys. "We're not going to leave until Zoe and I get a chance to chat." She pocketed the keys and turned to Zoe. "We just came back from a visit to my Dad's in Westchester. John and I had a great time—he's never played paintball, but he's great at it—"

"Excuse me. Zoe, can I talk to you for a moment?" John stood up, looked expectantly at Zoe.

Zoe looked up at him, sighed theatrically, and turned to Iris. "Don't go anywhere, you and I have a lot to chat about." Iris nodded, and Zoe rose from the booth; when John stepped over to the end of the bar, she followed him.

They both moved down to the end of the counter; Iris watched them as they paused down at the end where she couldn't hear their conversation; but she knew it was about her because Zoe looked back at her once. Iris pretended she hadn't seen the look and busied herself clearing the table so the waitress could put down their plates; but out the corner of her eye she watched John and Zoe together. _They do make an attractive couple_, she admitted to herself reluctantly. _Both tall, and Zoe's got a body a supermodel would envy. Hell, I'm not a supermodel and I envy her!_ Long legs that seemed to go on forever, and perfectly coiffed hair that seemed to stay in place. Iris was suddenly conscious of her own appearance; the wild red curls that never wanted to stay in place had been particularly unruly today, and she hadn't bothered to try and tame them after her shower at Dad's. And she still wore the light green sundress—although she had put her panties back on.

But Zoe didn't look like the type to do anything spontaneous; she seemed like a methodical planner, and Iris knew that, while John was the same, there was a little part of him that wanted to do something spontaneous and forbidden every once in a while. He would never admit it, but she knew he'd enjoyed every minute of their quickie in the woods, and he had quite obviously enjoyed teasing her in the movie theater, as well as the quick trip down the dirt road behind the movie theater. And she had to admit she'd enjoyed it too.

"Okay. So where were we?" Zoe returned to the table; the waitress, having figured out that Zoe was now sitting with them, had set three full plates on the table; Zoe picked up the grilled chicken salad as Iris grabbed her own burger and moved John's burger to his side of the table.

"Where's John?" Iris glanced up; John was nowhere to be seen.

"Headed for the boys' room. He'll be along in a little bit. I told him he needs to lighten up and he didn't take it too well." Zoe grinned at Iris. "I also told him you're good for him—whatever you guys have been doing today, I've never seen him this relaxed. Ever. And that's after knowing him for about eight years." She raised an eyebrow. "So how did you meet John?"

"I'm the departmental psych consult for Manhattan South Homicide," Iris said quietly. "John was ordered to come see me for a psych evaluation for a brief time. We…continued talking after I cleared him, and…it…"

Zoe chuckled and sat back. "If you're wondering what I'm going to think about your having a relationship with a former patient, don't. It's not the first time I've heard of it happening. It's not even unusual. I'm actually glad it happened with John—he keeps so much bottled up inside, and Lord knows I'm definitely not the right one to help him with that. I don't carry anyone's baggage but my own. You're better equipped to deal with him than I am."

Iris relaxed. So Zoe didn't have any attachments to John except the physical, and that only casually. There was no deep affection, even buried or unacknowledged, inside John for Zoe—Iris had already figured that out—and now she knew there was nothing deeper than casual sex for Zoe. She wasn't at all interested in John mentally or emotionally—in fact, Iris rather got a feeling that Zoe deliberately kept her contact with John casual so John wouldn't form those attachments.

Her loss was Iris's gain. "John's one of the most fascinating men I've ever met. The only man I've ever met who appeals to me both…physically…" she knew she was blushing, hurried on, "…and mentally. He's so complex, it's a challenge getting under the layers to see who he really is inside. He doesn't let many people in."

"Two others that I know of. Jessica, the first woman he was ever serious about. She died in a car accident. And then there was Detective Joss Carter—she was his equal in every way that counted, but he was too afraid to let her know how he felt. And then she died too." Zoe regarded Iris over the rim of her glass. "I know you've noticed by now he's very protective. So here's my advice; take care of yourself. For his sake as well as your own. You didn't look surprised when I mentioned Jessica, so he must have told you about her. And that means he let you farther in than he's ever let anyone since Jessica. If something happens to you, he might never let anyone in again."

"Get out of town for a few days."

Iris was shaken. She thought she'd seen all of the different sides of John, but she'd never seen this dark, dangerous, hard man standing across the precinct coffeemaker from her. She'd seen the tension in his body as he crossed the room toward her, movements seemingly casual but masking his real purpose; he'd been focused on her the moment he walked in. Something was going on, something dangerous; and as she looked into those intense blue eyes, she saw, under the hardness and the steely determination, a man who was afraid for her. And Zoe's words from the diner the night John had met her family ran through her mind; _if something happens to you he might never let anyone in again._

"Am…I going to lose you?" It was the only thing she could think of to say. Suddenly the thought of life without him was unbearable. Images, quick snapshots of their time together, flashed through her mind. John, shirtless and shoeless, cooking chili in her kitchen; John, walking Bear through the park while she walked Snow; John working with the dogs at the shelter; John, smiling at her as they played chess. She would miss that. Miss his gentle touch, the way he could make her feel. She would miss him.

He hesitated, then said, "When I get back I promise you I'll tell you everything." Everything? Everything she wanted to know about him, his life, what he did with Harold? Oh, she would hold him to that.

But that night, when she got home, instead of grabbing her bag and packing for a trip to her father's she went to the back of her closet and took out her old Academy piece. It had been a while, but she still remembered how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble—though, she thought dryly, John could probably do it in a quarter of the time she took to do it. But as she racked the slide back on her Smith and Wesson M&amp;P and checked to make sure the safety was well oiled and she could slide it back in a moment's notice, all she could think of was his promise. _It's easy to promise something if you know you're not coming back to fulfill it._ And as she sat on her couch with Snow snuggled against her, she sent a quiet prayer to whatever powers might exist in the universe to keep John and his friends safe.

Whatever they were doing.

_Author's Note:_

_Okay, now it's done. For the moment. We'll have to wait and see what happens when the new season of POI begins. _

_I'm sorry for the long gap between updates. There was a story on the news a few weeks ago about a 10 year old boy whose father handcuffed him to a radiator and beat him; by the time cops got him out of there he was comatose, and he died in the hospital three days later having never opened his eyes again. Neighbors heard him screaming, called the police; the mother answered the door, said that he;d just had a nightmare and sent them away; neighbors called a second time when the screaming started again after cops left. This time police forced their way in and found the boy. Father has been arrested for manslaughter and the mother is facing obstruction and accessory charges; both will also be charged with child abuse because when the boy's body was autopsied, they found various injuries in different stages of healing. Someone I know had a son who was the boy's friend; she remembered the boy coming to her house to play with her son, and she kept crying that if she'd known that was going on, she would have kept him at her house and called child protective services._

_It made a deep impression on me, and it also made me start thinking-if The Machine would give Harold the numbers for women whose lives were in danger from their domestic situation (like Jessica) wouldn't The Machine give Harold the numbers for children too? And if Harold told John, John would move mountains to protect the child. So my muse took another side trip and I started working on the details of that story. It's a deeply personal one for me, and I don't know if I'll ever post it on here. But in the meantime, here's the last of 'What the Hell' and I'll start posting to 'Redemption' next week-can't leave Joss pregnant forever!_


End file.
